Ghost Town
by xXfireXflyXx
Summary: Two years after being left behind by a god, Max Wright carries on with her life in Manhattan, working at her dream job and living with her best friend. Meanwhile, Loki is dressed as a king at last, though the blood needs to be scrubbed off. Pagurolid invaders, mutant friends, and broken Avengers await the duo, and neither will walk away unscathed. Sequel to "The Sky is Falling".
1. Talking loud, not saying much

**Prologue**

Max was late. Well, not late yet, but she was definitely running behind for work that morning, and if she didn't get her ass in gear, the nine-twenty bus was going to whizz past the stop in front of her apartment, not caring whether she was on it or not.

Although she didn't typically work Saturdays, she offered to come in and help with a new shipment of Sharps Rifles, which needed to be catalogued and cleaned properly before they could go up on display. Most people would complain about being dragged in to work on a weekend, but to Max, this job was _barely_ considered work.

She had only been in New York City for just under a year, and it already felt like she had a job that was going to be her end-all career. After almost flying through her last year of her post-graduate degree, Max applied for an entry-level position at a Civil War museum in Manhattan. A part of her had done it so she could tick it off her list—she never expected to actually get an interview. The museum was run by a Vietnam vet and his wife, and although it was only two blocks away from the Museum Mile on Fifth Avenue, it actually did a pretty steady amount of business. However, it was small, which meant that Max did a lot of work for a horrible pay because her boss didn't see the need to have two people doing the same thing she did. There were ten employees total, and somehow they managed to set up amazing displays with authentic artefacts open to the general public.

With Nolan and Elisa—and their beautiful daughter Noelle—already living in Brooklyn, the move from Vermont to New York actually felt somewhat natural. Pat was looking for a roommate to help cover her pricey rent, and it was almost an unspoken decision that she would move back in with the woman who had been her closest friend since childhood. Besides, she wasn't moving alone. Garret graduated St. Judith's music program at the same time she did, and within two weeks he had a job lined up at a producer's studio in Manhattan. So, despite the fact she was finally leaving her state for the first time ever, it definitely wasn't daunting: almost all of her important people were already there to help her with the transition.

Pat had already left for work that morning. Somehow, the woman had landed a job at the Met and had been working there in bliss for the last two years. Max dreamed of getting out into a bigger, grander museum, but she was partial toward the Civil War Era, and she was allowed to handle each and every weapon that waltzed through the front door: she definitely wasn't about to complain.

Running a comb through her hair, which trailed half-way down her back—it was time for a cut soon—Max scrambled around her somewhat messy apartment to gather everything. It wasn't like she needed to take a lot with her, since it technically wasn't a work day, but she couldn't find her bus pass, and if she couldn't find that, she wasn't getting on the bus anyway.

Not that she couldn't walk… It would take her a good thirty-five minutes to get to the museum from her place, and with May heating up faster than anyone anticipated, it was thirty-five minutes she would have rather spent inside. Her phone started to shriek from her purse just as she rummaged through the mess of mail on the table by the door. Frowning, she scuttled back to grab it, shoving her hand in her purse as she pulled her pencil skirt down—it had a tendency to ride up (which was mortifying when she had to walk to work), but it made her waist look magnificent.

When she saw her brother's name flash across the screen, she almost didn't answer. She had precisely seven minutes to find her pass and get down to the bus, and she wasn't particularly in the mood for a chat. However, he rarely called her this early unless that was something on his mind, so she tapped the answer button and held the phone up to her ear, keeping it there with her shoulder.

"Morning, brother dear," she sang, continuing to look under and around things for her bright purple pass. The apartment she shared with Pat was bigger than the one in Masonville, but it was long and narrow. The kitchen and living room were a shared space, though quite roomy indeed, and there was a narrow hallway that led back to the three bedrooms. She wasn't sure why Patricia even _needed_ three bedrooms to begin with, but they were able to cover them with their combined assets. Currently, the spare room was an office that converted into a guest bedroom when they had visitors or drunken overnight guests.

"Are you on the train yet?"

Nolan sounded more serious than she would have expected, which put a dampener on her chipper mood.

"I forgot to tell you," she started, leaning down to reach behind a couch cushion, "but I'm not leaving until tomorrow. Glenn gave me Monday and Tuesday off, so I can still watch Noelle. Mom will just have to—"

"Max," he said sharply. She wrinkled her nose at the crumbs that stuck to her fingers—they really needed to clean behind the cushions. "I told you to leave this morning."

"Would you relax?" she snapped, wiping the crumbs on her pale pink blouse (which was a mistake) and darting into the kitchen area. "I can still take Nolie—"

"I don't care about that," he told her. Her attention drifted away from the conversation when she spotted something purple near the sink. "I… My bosses think something is going to happen today and they just… I want you to go take the train now."

"What's the big deal then?" She snatched up her bus pass; four minutes to go.

"It's classified."

"Boo." Her brother had used that excuse on her so many times since he started working for Captain fucking America, and she was sick of it. Most of the time, he liked to dangle juicy tidbits about national security in front of her, and then walk away like he hadn't said anything at all. He really was pretty terrible at that aspect of his job. "Did you seriously call me _now_ to do this?"

"Max, I'm serious."

"Look, I promised I would help with a new shipment today," she insisted firmly. "Everyone else went home for the weekend, and I feel bad leaving Glenn and Maxine to handle everything by themselves."

"Fuck those two—"

"Rude." She forced her feet into her kitten heels, and then slung her purse onto her shoulder. Despite the fact it wasn't a work day, her bosses were crazy about the way their employees dressed: anytime they were on the clock, it was business attire.

"Max, can you just—"

"If it will make you feel better, I'll grab the four-thirty train out," she offered, slamming the door behind her and locking it quickly. She spotted a neighbour of hers rushing for the elevator, probably in a panic to catch the same bus, and she jogged after him. "Can you just tell me what the problem is?"

"I wish I could, but it's a matter of national security—"

"Okay, okay, whatever," she said. She felt like she should have taken him more seriously, but every single "national security threat" he alluded to never amounted to anything that she noticed. Sometimes, Max wondered if he did it because his job was actually really boring.

"Get out earlier if you can, Max."

"I'm going into the elevator, so I might lose you," she told him, squeezing in between the doors just in time. The building's elevators were notorious for not opening, even if you put your hand out to stop them, so it was a bit a stressful situation to catch them. However, it glided smoothly down from her apartment on the eighth floor, and before she knew it, she was on the ground. Nolan's voice cut in and out in the process, and she boosted the volume on her phone as she darted out into the lobby. "Nolan?"

"Max, are you there?"

"Oh, shit," she broke into a run when she saw her bus slowing to a stop in front of her building. "My bus is here… I'll call you later!"

"Max!"

She hung up and body-checked her way through the front doors, breathlessly making it onto the bus _just_ in time. After showing the driver her pass, she found an empty seat next to an older man, slightly embarrassed that she was so incredibly out of shape. She stuffed her pass into her purse and ran a hand through her hair, hoping it wasn't too messy. The bus bounced along the busy street, stopping a few more times to let workers on.

For most of the ride, she felt as though someone was watching her. She glanced over her shoulder, frowning as she surveyed the rest of the passengers. Most were busy with phones or music players, while the odd man or woman in a suit had a newspaper out. It wasn't until she glanced at the man next to her that she flinched: the man was openly gawking at her, unblinking and still. Max tried to offer a smile, but when the man continued to stare at her with eyes so blue that they were actually unnerving, she opted to stand elsewhere.

Grasping a nearby handle, she rolled her eyes and tried to fix her gaze elsewhere.

* * *

Loki knew change was coming. It had been some time since he was physically tortured. He would have thought that his body would be beyond saving at this point, but for the last few weeks he had only endured mental terror, and it was hardly as bad as it had been in the past. Once, he thought that his captors had grown tired of him and had perhaps moved on to better prey. However, when he was hauled out of his dark cell that day, he knew that everything was about to change.

He was taken down winding corridors so twisted that it was dizzying. In the end, he was thrown into a room with better lighting than he had been in for ages, and there was a table of fine delicacies that made his painfully empty stomach turn over and over on itself. He couldn't eat much, naturally, but the few mouthfuls of warm, cooked meat he did take were exquisite. Unfortunately, they also made him nauseous, but it was worth the discomfort for proper food. Aside from the table, there was a mirror that stretched between the crooked ceiling and the floor, and Loki tried to open the door a few times when he was alone, but that seemed to do no good.

When someone finally returned, it was no longer a Chitauri guardsman, but a human woman. She was aged and bent, hobbling into the room with such slowness that it was almost painful. Loki stood upright, spying two guards standing on the other side of the door, and then glared down his nose at the woman. However, the closer he looked, the more he realized that she may have appeared to be a humanoid, but there was something with the droop of her skin that indicated she was anything but.

"Stand in front of this mirror."

He hadn't heard a human's tongue speak for what felt like an eternity, and for a moment he simply stared at her. When she repeated the command, however, he sensed that it would not bode well for him to disobey. So, he did as he was told, standing in front of the mirror but not looking at his reflection. He knew he would look thin. He knew his cheeks would be gaunt and his eyes encased in dark circles. He knew he would be a shell of the man he once was—physically, at least—and therefore he had no desire to see it for himself.

Then she started to undress him. Again, Loki was stunned. He had been in the same clothes since he arrived. They were bloodied and disgusting and ruined, but no one saw fit to provide him with anything else. He almost wished they had offered him a bath rather than food, but he held his tongue. Since it had been some time since he was physically assaulted by anyone, he was actually able to stand for the duration of the wardrobe change, though his eyes were heavy and he was eager to settle back down by the table of food.

The woman said nothing else. She held him up when he stumbled on one foot, and once he was dressed fully again, she started to pin the clothing. When he glanced down, he realized he was in an outfit similar to the one he had worn when he led the Chitauri army the first time around: a heavy leather vest over a thin shirt, black trousers and shoes, and a green cape for the theatricality of it all.

The door creaked open a second time, and Loki turned his head slowly to observe the tall, broad man who sauntered in. It was another human, and while the skin seemed to fit better, Loki saw the eyes as a giveaway.

"How are we feeling today, Loki?"

Clad in what appeared to be an expensive suit, the man smiled a brilliant smile—teeth all straight and white and well-maintained. Loki said nothing in response, but merely continued to stare at him, hoping the deadened look in his eye would be unnerving. The new arrival, however, seemed to hardly notice. Instead, he seemed to be fixated on Loki's hair.

"You can do something about that, right?"

"Hmm." Loki winced when the woman reached up and ran her thin fingers through his tangled locks, which were in desperate need of a brushing. "I might need to cut it."

"Just make sure he's presentable—"

"I know what I'm doing."

Loki held back his smirk, pleased with the way the woman managed to make the man grind his teeth together.

"We haven't met before," the fellow started, sauntering around and standing in front of him. When they were face to face, Loki realized he was a hint taller than the human body-suit, and had he still had his strength, he certainly would have been able to dominate the new arrival. "On Earth, my name is Carl."

Loki scoffed noisily: it was the best he could do in the given circumstances.

"I'm going to be quick with you," Carl told him. "We need to get you looking a little sharper before we begin." Loki arched an eyebrow, and Carl grinned, the corners of his lips curling upward in a manner that was almost animalistic. "It's time for us to take Earth… There's enough of my kind there to hold the planet until reinforcements arrive, and seeing as its inhabitants are slowly depleting its natural resources anyway, we figured now would be the best time to strike."

"I'm thrilled for you," Loki croaked, which managed to make the being laugh and clap him on the shoulder. He winced, but he had certainly endured worse.

"I'm glad, because you're going to be leading the parade," Carl insisted, and Loki twitched when the woman accidentally stabbed him with one of her needles. He glanced down at her, but she seemed not to notice her blunder.

"I don't—"

"But you do," Carl continued, turning around to appraise himself in the mirror. He licked a finger and ran it over each eyebrow, pleased with the result. "You see, you kind of carved a niche for yourself on the planet the _last_ time you led an invasion, and we want to stay true to the genre."

"That's not entirely the right wording—"

"So, we cut a deal with your Chitauri overlords," the man purred, smoothing a hand down the front of his suit. "In exchange for _you, _they get some big island all to themselves… I think the humans call it Madagascar… _anyway_." The man whirled back and smiled. "You get to lead the uprising… We're tossing you right back into your old stomping ground in Manhattan. We're going to take the biggest cities and work our way outward."

"That's original of you," he managed, his voice cutting out as Carl laughed again.

"When it ain't broke, don't fix it," he mused, "or whatever the humans say. You see, we'd like to keep _our_ presence on the down-low until we've conquered… To the rest of the world, it looks like _you_ are back for vengeance with a new army of loyal humans, and the odd Chitauri warrior here and there, I guess."

Loki blinked slowly, studying the way his new outfit clung to his skinny wrists. "I have no interest in taking over Earth—"

"No, but here's the thing," Carl whispered, stepping very close to address him. "If you do it, you'll be our king… You won't really have power, but you'll be a king. If you don't, it's back in the pit for you with your old friends."

He stiffened when the creature ran a hand down his front, stopping at the metallic detailing in his shirt.

"Doesn't this feel better?" Carl asked, an eyebrow arching upward. "Naturally, the choice is yours… but you know the conditions." He swatted at the woman by Loki's ankles, who glared up at the pair. "Come, let's give our would-be king some time to think it over…"

He then patted Loki's cheek, which made him reel back violently. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, Loki almost doubled over at the pain, but he managed only to duck his head: that damn tooth.

"I mean, what's to think over?" Carl mused, ushering the woman out of the room. "Enjoy the spread, my friend."

Loki watched them leave, his limbs trembling as the pain eased away. His eyes then flickered up to the mirror, and before he realized it, he was hurling silverware at his reflection, shattering the mirror in an uproar.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**HELLO AND WELCOME. So, this is the start of the sequel to **_**The Sky is Falling**_**. If you haven't read the first story, I'm not going to be patient and explain what's happening. Don't know why you would read a sequel without reading the original, but I've had readers do it in the past and then question my plot decisions that reflect things that have happened in the first story. So. I just. No. **

**I kept a lot of the prologue purposefully obtuse. The first chapter is going to start on the same day in the story, and I kind of just wanted to give a teaser **_**and**_** provide some necessary info now that may slow the pace for the first chapter down. However, I also didn't want this to be some big information dump, so I preferred to do two scenes rather than pages upon pages explaining what's been happening over the last two years. Yup. It's been just over two years since Loki was taken, and life goes on! **

**I'm just so excited to be here! I've been going over the plot for this story since last November, and I'm just so thrilled that so many other people are going to continue on with me. Just like the last story, I'm going to aim to do an update every week, or every other week, if time permits. Sometimes it will be longer between chapters, but you can always check my tumblr (a link to which is on my FF homepage) for fanfiction updates about what I'm working on. **

**Can't wait to get started! Brownies and feels tissues for everyone! **


	2. Gunning for the ones who run

Max heard the chaos before she saw it.

After spending the last two hours cleaning and cataloguing the new shipment of rifles, she had popped down to the first floor reception area to update the main computer log. With no one else working, it was up to her to get all the information they had received that morning and upload it into the museum's records—both of her bosses were absolute crap on the computer.

The museum itself wasn't especially big, though the outside looked grand enough to be on Fifth Avenue. There were large white stairs leading up to a building that looked like it belonged on a southern plantation circa the eighteenth century. There were beautiful white columns in front of spotless Plexiglas doors, which opened up into the area she usually occupied for most of the day. The reception wasn't large either: there were glass display cases with handwritten letters from soldiers on both sides of the Civil War playing field, along with a desk that Max sold tickets from. There were stairs on either side of the wall behind her, a heavy metal door that led to the loading dock around back, and a set of public toilets for visitors to use before they entered the museum.

The building itself was four floors of exquisite historical wonder. Off-white tile led visitors through the second floor, which consisted of veteran uniforms and Civil War era clothing. The third floor had several projection rooms to show clips and educational features, along with two models of a historical cabin from both sides of the enemy lines. The fourth floor was her favourite, as it consisted of various corridors lined with beautiful weapons, all of which Max had scrutinized over the last year in such detail that it was almost embarrassing.

The only downside was that there were no elevators. Guests needed to walk between each floor, which was upsetting to those who had a disability, but her bosses never really seemed to care that some of their exhibits weren't handicap-accessible.

The third floor also housed the break room (in which were a series of lockers that Max usually left a change of clothes in), the main office, and a room dedicated to artefact preservation. She had spent her morning there with an array of tiny brushes, which she used to dust and meticulously clean her new rifles. Well, they weren't hers, but Max had already developed a sentimental attachment to the pieces because she was the first to handle them. Maxine popped in to help her every so often, but for the most part she kept herself busy in the office with her husband—paperwork was a never-ending reality of the museum world.

Her back was just starting to get sore when she decided to take a break. Hunching over a table all morning was bound to do that, and she still hadn't grasped the fact that she would actually need to work out at some point so she wouldn't get stiff at work. So, after locking the new rifles away in a safe, Max drifted down the dimly lit stairwells until she reached the ground floor, sauntering across the pristine lobby until she was seated behind a desk.

And that was when she heard it. At first, it sounded like a car or truck had backfired. It was a horrible, awful _bang_ that echoed like a firework, and it was noisy enough to make the windows across the reception area vibrate. She paused with her fingers resting on the keyboard, eyebrows furrowed. However, after a minute of nothingness, she simply ignored it and went back to writing: Manhattan was a much noisier place than Masonville could _ever_ be, and random sounds were nothing out of the ordinary.

But then it happened again. And again. And on the third burst of sound, she started to hear people shrieking. She tentatively rose from her seat, tugging her skirt down as she leaned around the desk. A gaggle of people ran in front of the museum along the sidewalk. Cars raced down the street, horns blaring. She stared for a moment, listening and watching the chaos unfold, and then darted around behind her desk to retrieve a set of keys from one of the drawers.

There was a "closed" sign on the doors, but none of them were locked—now seemed like the time to barricade herself in. Although she hadn't the slightest idea what was happening, Max hurried across the lobby—careful not to slip on the freshly waxed floors—and rammed the key into all three of the locks, and then pushed the bolts up that went into the floor and ceiling. People were still running. Men and women in business suits and everyday spring attire raced down the street. The sounds were louder, more blasts, more everything—when she heard gunfire, she turned and hightailed it for the safety of the upper floors.

She was almost out of breath by the time she reached the main office, and she spotted Glenn and Maxine seated in front of their small television on Glenn's desk.

"Are you alright?" Maxine asked as she stepped inside. The woman was roughly Max's height, which made her a full head taller than her husband, and she looked like she spent years playing professional basketball. Glenn, on the other hand, was small and thin with cheekbones that always looked like they could cut you if you got too close. Both were greying and sagging with age, but they worked just as hard as their young employees.

"I-I'm fine," she muttered, running a hand through her hair as she hurried to get a look at the TV. "It's insane out there."

"The news thinks it's a terrorist attack or something," Glenn grunted, pointing at the screen. The camera panned along various familiar locations across Manhattan, and it seemed the situation she saw out front was a city-wide affair. It was through the lens of a reporter that she got a better look at the shooters: men in black uniforms with menacing helmets. The trio flinched when they heard more gunfire on the streets below, and Max cautiously glanced out the window to see if they were encroaching on the museum.

So far, it seemed the shooters were opening fire into the crowd and air. She couldn't look down for long, fearing she would see someone shot, but in the few moments that she did spare a glance outside, it didn't seem like they were shooting to kill.

But fuck, what did she know about lunatics and the way they shot up a crowd?

"Jesus _Christ_…"

The loudest of all the noises she had heard in the last fifteen minutes barreled through the streets, rattling the windows and knocking people to their knees. Max scrambled back to look at the television, noting the way Glenn's jaw hung open—she could have sworn Maxine was starting to cry. It was there she saw the live feed of the aftermath of the noise: the bridges were being blown out. Shot after shot jumped between all the major bridges that connected the island of Manhattan to the other Boroughs: the Brooklyn Bridge was smoldering rubble, the Manhattan Bridge was gone, and the Queensboro Bridge was in two giant pieces. There were cars in the rivers, along with all their occupants surely.

Max covered her mouth with her hands, blinking slowly—as if one blink and she might miss something important. Maxine and Glenn were speaking to one another, but she could barely hear them. Instead, her mind jumped between all the important people in her life that lived in the city. Pat, Tiffany, and Garret were probably at work right now. Nolan's office was on the other side of the river, but there was no telling what was happening over there. She had friends in all places—were any of them on the street?

Her legs started to tremble, but before they buckled, she dragged a nearby chair over to collapse into.

"We can't stay here."

Her eyes flickered toward Maxine, who was wiping under her eyelashes with her sweater's sleeves. "Glenn, they'll probably start going into buildings…"

Max's stomach knotted painfully, and for a moment, she just wanted to cry. She had always heard about terrible things happening to people. There was war and strife all around the world, but never once had it touched her community in such a graphically real way. If she could curl up under the desk and wish it away, she would. A part of her even questioned if it was real now, and she pinched herself as she stared at the live-stream of the city's madness: black-armored men with guns chasing average people. Most seemed to be on foot, but some clips showed them commandeering cars.

"Max?"

Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and she needed to forcefully swallow a few times to make everything work again.

"Did you guys drive here?" She looked between both of them, knowing precisely what she needed to do—what they needed to do. When Glenn nodded, she spoke before he could. "You should take your car and try to head for the tunnels."

"Max—"

"I'll make sure everything important is locked away…" It was almost as though she was having an out-of-body experience as she spoke. She could feel her mouth forming the words, but her brain was a million miles away, trying to think of everything she needed to do.

"No, you're going to come with us." It was Maxine who brought her back to the here and now when she touched Max's wrist. She shook her head.

"Look, my friend works two streets over, and I want to get to her before I go anywhere." Tiffany worked at a hoity-toity PR firm that handled television and film marketing—the woman was probably a wreck right now. Not that Max was much better, but it would probably make this situation less paralyzing if she knew just _one_ person was safe. "I'll lock up, put everything in the safes, and then take the back alley to get to her building."

"Max, don't be stupid," Glenn said sharply. "We'll drive you there at the very least."

"No, I want you guys to make it to the tunnels," she reasoned shakily. "I mean, if they took out the bridges, maybe they'll try to do the same there."

She watched the couple exchange looks, and she eased herself to her feet. They had kids and grandkids to think about—they had people they provided for. It wasn't like she didn't have family that cared about her, and she had absolutely zero interest in martyrdom, but this seemed like the logical thing to do. Besides, Max could actually run away from an attacker if the need be: the thought of Glenn fighting off or running from anyone was almost laughable.

Not that she could laugh at a time like this.

"I won't forgive myself if something happens to you," Maxine told her, and Max threw her arms around the woman. A part of her needed the support that a hug could provide, while the other part simply wanted to show that there were no hard feelings. She heard Glenn rummaging around, and when the two women broke away, he set a handgun on his desk.

"You keep this with you."

"No, I want you guys to take it," she insisted, shaking her head and waving her hands as she stepped away. "You're heading somewhere more dangerous than I am."

The shooters might want a working vehicle, and that was a bigger target than a single, unarmed woman. No, they needed it more than she did.

"Max, just—"

"We can't stand here and argue about it," she said sharply. Each scream, each bang, each discharge of a weapon made her twitch, and with every limb tensed, she just wanted to get out of this building and find her friends. "I'm staying, you're going, and that's that."

There was some more grumbling and groaning from her bosses, but eventually she got them dressed in their spring jackets and down the stairs, which was a mission in itself. When they were finally back in the lobby, Max noticed the Plexiglas doors were smudged, like people had put their hands and fingers against them, and she was glad the rest of the museum was hidden from the outside.

"Here's the master set of keys," Glenn muttered as she practically shoved him through the door that led to the loading dock, which was where they normally parked their Prius. "Do what you can, but try to get out."

"I just want to make sure some of the more expensive stuff is locked up," she told him brightly, her false cheer not doing a thing for anyone. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"You do that."

He gave her one last half-hug, and when they heard more gunfire from somewhere outside, she pushed him into the service corridor and shut the heavy door behind him. The streets were no less busy now than they had been when all this started. It seemed like people from neighbouring office buildings were pouring into the streets, and cars had a tough time getting through the sheer volume of them. But there were still shooters, and when Max spotted one close enough to see her in the brightly-lit lobby, she made a run for it back up the stairs and dashed through the second floor.

Even though the whole reason she had offered to stay behind was to lock up valuables, Max couldn't help herself: the first place she went was the break room on the third floor. Although she had serious doubts that anyone would have texted her, she wondered if she could get hold of Pat to see where the woman was. However, as she burst into the break room, she could hear her phone shrieking on the other side of the door that led to the changeroom.

Sure enough, the device continued to scream from her locker, and Max hastily grabbed her purse and fumbled through it. In her panic, she actually missed the phone twice, grabbing at her wallet and nothing on both occasions, until she finally retrieved it.

"Nolan!"

Of course her brother would be calling—he had warned her that something was going to happen today. Why the fuck couldn't he have been more explicit about it?!

"Are you on a train?"

"No," she ground out, her hands shaking as she held the phone to her ear. "No, I told you I was going to take the one at four—"

"Are you still at work?" There was a lot of noise around him, and she wondered where he might be. If he was at work too, there was probably pandemonium. Did Captain America know this was happening?

"Yes—"

"I _told_ you that you should have left yesterday!"

"_Now_ is not the time for judgement, _Nolan_!" she snapped, throwing her purse back in her locker and slamming it shut. With the giant ring of master keys dangling from her wrist, she hurried out of the claustrophobically small change room and into the much lighter break room, taking a moment to steal a glance outside. It was still chaos. No sirens, no cop cars, no nothing to restore order.

Her brother's line cut out for a moment, and Max punched the volume button on the side of her phone. When he spoke again, she winced. "Stay there… I'm coming to get you."

She blanched, her face prickling in shock. "What are you doing in the city?!"

"Coming to get _you_, you fuck!"

At that point, she had her forehead pressed to the glass, scoping the crowd for her brother's familiar face.

"Nolan…" She closed her eyes, swallowing thickly. She wanted to tell him that she was scared. She wanted to panic, to break down, to cry. But he was coming to get her, and she had to stay level-headed for that. "Is Elisa okay?"

"Yeah, she and Nolie went to Mom's last night like I told her to," he grumbled. Gunfire erupted from his end. "I'll be there in two minutes!"

And then he hung up. Still trembling, she stared at the phone for a moment, and then tucked it under her bra strap—because apparently, pockets had no place in women's fashion. Halfway down the second staircase, she slipped on her heel, wrenching her shoulder when she caught herself. The pain was secondary to the panic, however, and she carried on like nothing had happened, keys echoing in the emptiness.

Once she was in the lobby, she crouched behind the front desk, eyes fixated on the clear doors. They looked dirtier now, but it seemed like no one had tried to break in. She waited. She waited with adrenaline pumping through her arms and legs, the feeling so powerful that her teeth were chattering.

When she finally saw her brother hobbling up the front steps, she raced forward and started unlocking one of the doors. It took her a while to find the proper key to get the final lock, but once she did, Nolan practically fell inside, collapsing onto her and holding her close to his chest.

"What's happening?" she whimpered, her face buried against his neck. "What is this?"

"Max, look at me," he said quickly, stepping back and taking her by the shoulders. His light brown hair was starting to look choppy, and she noticed a black smear on his cheek. "They aren't human, okay?"

"What?"

"The shooters," he told her, gripping her tightly and giving her a bit of a shake when her mind started to drift. "The shooters aren't human. They look like humans, but they aren't."

"What? Like mutants?" He shook his head and her frown deepened. "Like… aliens?"

"I couldn't tell you," he whispered shakily. She noticed his bad leg was starting to quiver, but they both ignored it—he had made so much progress over the last two years. "I wasn't allowed, I was sworn to keep it secret, but now it's… It's out now, so they aren't human. Don't let them get you alone, okay?"

"Okay."

She wasn't even sure how she was supposed to process this. Hell, she wasn't processing it. Max was simply taking information and storing it at the back of her mind, ready to dissect and pick through at another point in time.

"They're flooding the tunnels," he told her, and her breathing quickened, "but my buddy has a boat, and he's going to take us across to Brooklyn, and you'll stay at the base until this is handled."

"Nolan—"

"As far as we know, it's only major cities that are—"

"Cities?" Max squeaked. "This is happening somewhere else?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then swallowed thickly. "Everywhere… It's happening everywhere."

"Oh my _god_."

"We have to go, Max."

"Wait," she said, reaching for her phone and unlocking it. "I want to know where Pat is… Maybe we can bring her too."

He seemed unwilling to linger, but Max wrestled herself from his grasp and took a few steps away, holding the phone to her ear after clicking on Pat's name. It rang a few times, and each time there was a lull she grew more and more tense. However, before Pat even had the chance to answer, she heard a familiar sound: the Plexiglas door whooshing open.

She and Nolan turned to face the intruders at the same time, and her brother was soon at her side. He then had a handgun in his hand, one that had been lurking in a holster attached to his jeans, and it hung loosely between them. There were three shooters, all dressed in black with helmets and automatic rifles. She could see their mouths—grim, set in a thin line, and quite obviously human.

Although she wanted to grab her brother's arm and crumble into a heap, she stayed facing the new arrivals, shoulders back and head held high. This was how they did it in the movies, wasn't it?

The shooter at the front raised his gun, but before anyone could get a word in edgewise, Nolan shot him in the neck just above his armoured top. Black blood squirted out in front of him, and Max screamed as her brother dragged her toward the nearby staircase. There were shots fired in the lobby, but they were already up the stairs and around the corner by the time she heard footsteps in hot pursuit.

"Run!" Her brother's encouragement was unnecessary, and they raced through the narrow walkways between display cases. Max shrieked every time a bullet ricochet off something close to her, and she could see the remaining two shooters were on their tail—their reflections looked otherworldly in the display cases.

Nolan slowed to a stop at the end of a hallway. The decorations were done now—they were at the point in the museum where visitors would round a corner, surrounded by white walls with painted quotes on them, and then take the staircase to the next floor. He pushed her toward the corner, motioning for her to keep going with his gun.

"Go!"

"Nolan," she hissed breathlessly, her lungs almost collapsing in on themselves. "What are you doing?!"

"I can take them—"

"No!"

"Just run, Max! Go down and get out!"

She took two steps away, and then stopped. "Nolan, just come on!"

She couldn't see anything but her brother, standing there at the end of the white hallway with a quote from Stonewall Jackson traced onto the wall.

_Press on, press on, men._

"Nolan!"

He stiffened when they both heard noisy boots clomping into the hall, and then fired two shots at the unseen intruders. She wasn't sure if he hit anything, but before she could ask, the shooters retaliated. One moment, her brother was there, and then next, his face was splattered across the white wall behind him. Max screamed; it was a hoarse, breathless scream that hurt her throat, but made no sound.

Her knees buckled when he staggered back against that damn quote and slid down the wall, blood trailing onto his clothes and the spotlessly clean floor beneath him. One knee gave way fully, and Max fell, unable to look away from the sight before her.

She always thought he'd die in a desert somewhere, surrounded by foreigners and soldiers.

She wanted to throw up, to scream again, to sob. But she heard the boots moving, along with voices that were muffled in her ears, and she forced herself to get up. It was a challenge, and her numb body slammed into the wall as she tried to push forward to the staircase. Somehow, she forced herself through the door that was too heavy and into the stairwell, but she went up rather than down, only realizing her mistake when she was on the third floor. Her shoes made it difficult to get anywhere fast, as her legs were shaking so violently that it was a miracle they worked at all—she ditched them in an ornate barrel.

There was no time to stop and contemplate her next move. The footsteps that thundered after her echoed her racing heart, and rather than locking herself in the office or the break room, Max darted into one of the housing exhibits. Without really thinking it through, she climbed under the obscenely thick skirt of female mannequin standing in front of a washer bucket. Both the bucket and skirt offered her protection, but she still clamped a hand down over her mouth and shut her eyes when the voices grew loud again.

"…the face," she heard one bark, his voice both too deep and nasally to be human. It wasn't human. "He's useless without the face."

"No body is useless," the second insisted, and Max stilled painfully when she heard them march by the display. "We will find a use for it."

"And the other?"

Then they were silent, and tears rolled down her cheeks when she heard—and felt—the floorboards of the old kitchen display creak. She listened, ears straining, as they marched through, checking in cupboards noisily and even in the wash bucket in front of her. She couldn't breathe. She held her breath for so long that she started to get dizzy, and still she pushed on until they were gone. When she heard them going through the office, she let a shaky breath out at last, but she stayed perfectly still until it was clear they were gone for good.

The third floor grew silent. There were dull noises from the outside—her display was nearest to a window—and she sat there for what felt like hours until she was sure there was no trace of the shooters skulking in the shadows.

Max crawled out from beneath the heavy fabric wearily, on her hands and knees, but she couldn't get herself upright. Instead, she fell inward as the floodgates opened, and she curled into a ball on the floor, hyperventilating until she couldn't anymore.

* * *

Loki was still unsure if the Pagurolids flourished in chaos. After all, their goal in life seemed to be that they would move from planet to planet, taking and using and destroying until there was nothing left. However, the way they handled the uprising was very clinical and tactful, as though it was simply something that needed to be done.

As Carl had told him, Loki led the invasion. He descended from the sky in a glorious Chitauri chariot with a few soldiers flanking him on either side, and he fired the first shot. The device that had been implanted in his mouth eons ago propelled him onward, growing more painful and intense whenever he hesitated. He knew where it was. It was a black tooth that lived where his last molar ought to, and he had tried to yank it out on countless occasions. That was their leverage. He didn't want to be the king of this realm. He didn't care to lead an invasion. He certainly did not want to return to the pit, mind you, but otherwise he would have flatly refused the arrogant Pagurolid.

But he didn't, and here he was, marching through the rubble of an overtaken Manhattan. The soldiers lay dormant until he started the attack, and then he watched them pour through the streets like a black plague of some kind. Loki was told that the footsoldiers were not to kill, but to capture—he had seen countless human bodies strewn this way and that in the aftermath of the attack. He was untouched, naturally. No one could get to him when their own people were turning on them, herding them out of buildings and into designated zones.

He had no idea if the lower ranking Pagurolids believed he was indeed their king, but many acted as though it were so. They bowed when he marched by, uttering words of praise, though the heavy-set fellows who kept an eye on him surely knew he was as much a prisoner here as the humans were—the real humans.

His expression was grim. He showed no outward delight in the carnage, and only fought back if the situation was dire—and it rarely was. His bodyguards were effective and ruthless. No Avengers filled the skies, and from what he heard, a warning had been issued: if governments retaliate, humans will die on the island of Manhattan. The bridges and tunnels were gone—flooded or bombed—and all the people here were captives.

Captives, hostages, body suits…

Loki pitied the strong. He watched the Pagurolids throw weak men, women, children, and the elderly into countless caged holdings that were built in the streets. These would be the slaves, the servants to the new rulers of the planet, while the strong would be gutted for incoming Pagurolids. The weak would eventually die too: they would be left with a wasted planet, and from there they would wither to nothingness.

His bodyguards directed him onto a narrow street just as the sun started to set. They had been marching through the downtown core for hours now, as though Loki wished to take in the destruction for himself, but really he was walking until they told him to stop. A makeshift scepter hung loosely in his hand, and he stepped over a dead body without so much as flinching.

They passed a metallic cage, one that was narrow and rectangular. It looked like the metal fences he had seen when he lived on this planet, the ones that surrounded the college campus. It appeared that the occupants could climb it if they dared, but the loitering Pagurolid soldiers in black seemed to make them think better of it. They fell silent as Loki marched by, their beady eyes on him. He stared back blatantly, and he knew precisely what he saw: fear, horror, rage.

Understandable emotions.

"We've readied a retreat for you, my king."

He arched an eyebrow at the Pagurolid who approached him and his entourage. He came from a group of soldiers huddled over a table with several maps spread across it. The streetlamps flickered, and Loki glanced upward lazily, watching the street come to life as the sun set. There were a few tents set up beyond that table, and he wondered if one was for him.

"Oh?"

"Here," the soldier beckoned, motioning for him to follow to the left. He was faced with an antique furniture store—based on the signage—with the windows blacked out. It seemed to have been done recently, perhaps to give Loki the illusion of privacy. He looked back over his shoulder at the group of Pagurolids. His strength was returning slowly without daily torture, but he had not the power to take out all of them on his own.

He licked his lips, nose wrinkled as the soldier bowed low. He was supposed to go into his cage for the night. Sighing, he stepped forward, and once he was inside, the door swung shut behind him. It was still clear (aside from the grey lettering that indicated the shop's hours), perhaps so he could be watched if the need be, and Loki glared at the Pagurolids on the other side.

"We'll have your supper soon, my king!"

They seemed quite pleased with themselves as they peeled off, their visible lips curving upward into grins. Jaw clenched, he turned back to survey his newest cell: there were a number of strange couches scattered everywhere, along with some wooden cabinets that appeared to be quite old indeed. A single bed sat at the rear of the store, and although it was small, it looked comfortable enough.

He was in no mood for food, but he would probably eat whatever they managed to bring him. Biting the inside of his cheek, he stalked back to the door, eyes narrowing in on the pair of guards who hovered nearby. The sun was gone now, though the soldiers had set up a number of artificial lights to keep their workspace usable. One strong light shone on the prisoners, many of whom were curled up in the corners of the makeshift cage. His eyes drifted to the building across the street and they swept across its large columns and wide steps.

A Civil War Museum, according to the gold letters over the door.

He pursed his lips—how fitting.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**So I was a wreck planning and going over the details for Max's section of this chapter. Like. I was a mess for a long time, and I went back and forth about Nolan's fate, and this was where I always ended up. I never wanted to have him taken by a Pag, but rather go out defending someone he loves. And now I'm done. DONE. Too many angsty feels inside me about Nolan, and I'm done. **

**I'm so thrilled that many of you are sticking around for the sequel! A guest reviewer lamented about wanting this story to be about Loki and Max, **_**not**_** Spiderman etc., and I just wanted to say… It **_**is**_** about Loki and Max. So. It is. Just be patient. **

**My biggest fear for this story is losing Max's loveable ordinary qualities. It's clear she is in a vastly different situation now than she was in **_**The Sky is Falling**_**, so I don't want people to expect the same mundane happenings that took place there to happen here. It's a different setting, different time, and Loki and Max are going to continue to develop as characters throughout the massive arc that this story has. **

**Also, the titles for the prologue and this chapter come from _Titanium_ by David Guetta and Sia. I decided to do a sequel while imaging a scene to that song, hence the tribute. Bam. **

**Anyway. I'm just happy you're all here, and the positive responses to the prologue were overwhelming and amazing. I just feel so lucky to have such awesome readers and reviewers. Until next time, my pretties!**


	3. Pulling a Kevin McCallister

Max's sleep was intermittent and dreamless. Once she did a sweep of the third and fourth floors, she locked herself in Glenn's office for the night. He had leftovers in his mini-fridge, which were actually quite tasty when they were cold, and she knew there were some random fruits and veggie platters in the staff fridge that she could eat in the morning. She was too exhausted, at the time, to do much. Like she promised, she locked away a few of the more valuable pieces on the off-chance that people started looting, but she did it in such a monotonous, zombie-like state that when morning came, she had to double-check the safes to make sure she had actually done it.

She didn't want to think. As she sat there, limbs stiff and sore on Glenn's armchair, Max knew it was a slippery slope to reliving the horror she saw the day before. She knew he was gone. She knew that the brother who had been her closest ally for her entire life was dead and gone, and there was nothing she could do about it anymore. Even though she had wanted to check the lower levels to ensure that she was completely alone in her museum fortress, she couldn't bring herself to go down the stairs the night before. Instead, she barricaded the entrance with a barrel, as if that would ward off the bad memories, and had an awful sleep in Glenn's office. She woke frequently; on the cusp of a bad dream, she would bolt up, her eyes swollen and her head spinning, and then stare into the darkness until sleep overtook her again.

It was almost painfully sunny outside that morning—as if Mother Nature was trying to be ironic. After a quick dash to the employee bathroom, Max crept along to one of the front windows, resting her fingers on the ledge and peering down to the street below her. It was busy, even at eight in the morning. There were uniformed soldiers everywhere, but she noticed that many had removed their helmets now. A duo of guards stood in front of the antique shop across the street, and as Max's eyes traveled over the boarded-up windows, she wondered what had happened to the owners—they were good friends with Glenn and Maxine.

Along with the gunmen, all of whom kept a weapon slung out over their shoulders, there were what appeared to be camping tents pitched in the street—the shooters seemed to be using them for something. She hovered at the window ledge, careful to keep low, and watched men (and a few rather large women, actually) in black uniforms traipse in and out of those tents. Some of the smaller units were difficult to see in to, but there was a large tent—one that was used for family gatherings or to house eight to twelve campers comfortably—that was clearly used for food. In fact, she could see the smoke billowing out of a hole cut in the roof, and she was sure she would smell something meaty if she opened the window.

She did not want to smell something meaty.

What disturbed her most about the street scene below were the people in the large chain-link cage on the far left of the museum. She counted sixteen of them all together: three women, six children, and the rest were men—age and race seemed to hold no sway over who found a spot in the kennel. In the half-hour that she crouched to watch the street comings and goings, never once did a guard stop to bother with the prisoners. She did see a cook—dressed in brown khakis—deliver a steaming pot of something, but she didn't bother to stick around and watch sixteen hungry people devour whatever was inside.

Instead, Max skulked back to the locker area to see if she had something that was more comfortable than her skirt, which was stretched and stained and cutting into her waist—she should have changed out of it sooner, but she couldn't bring herself to do much the night before. Mercifully enough, there was a pair of trackpants beneath her binders that had been sitting there since November. She lifted them to her nose: they had a bit of a damp smell, but otherwise they were fine—anything was better than her skirt.

Unfortunately, she didn't have any socks in there, which meant she had to wander around barefoot, and while the museum floor was clean, she knew she would struggle if she needed to go anywhere in a hurry outside.

Ha. As if she would go outside at a time like this. For now, the museum's upper levels were silent, and it seemed that the battalion out front kept looters and stragglers away from the entrance. But then again, she had no idea if they were using the first two floors as a base, so she jogged up to the fourth floor to find a weapon. In the end, she settled on a Spencer carbine rifle that already had a set of cartridges in the display case. She knew she was a pretty good shot, but the gun was a last resort only: Max didn't want them to know she was still inside unless there was absolutely no alternative.

With the rifle loaded and slung over her shoulder, she hitched up her baggy trackpants and started for the stairwell. The first flight of stairs was nothing, but her heart started to race when she stood in front of the doorway to the second floor. She felt nauseous about going back in there, and her palms were a sweaty mess. The thought of what she might see when she opened that door was enough to send her scuttling back into the office to hide under Glenn's desk.

But she couldn't do that. She knew she needed to make sure she was completely safe in the building—Max needed to know how much noise she could make and when she could make it. She already knew she couldn't turn any of the lights on or off: however the building was when the attack happened, that's how it needed to stay when the sun set. Anything else would be too noticeable.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and slipped through the doorway, her eyes on the floor. Each step she took toward the last place she saw Nolan made her weaker and weaker, and by the time she was where she stood when he died, she needed to lean on her rifle for support.

The body was gone. Her face screwed into an unattractive expression when she saw nothing but a massive bloodstain on the floor, and when she moved around the corner, she saw random droplets leading down the hall. They had taken him.

A small, horrible part of her was relieved that the body was gone. She didn't want to look at it—she didn't want to remember her big brother without a face. So, shouldering her gun once more, she moved slowly down the hallway and onto the second floor. She kept close to the walls, eyes peeled for any sign of movement around the display cases. The sunlight kept the entire floor illuminated; it glared in as though it was looking for her, spanning across displays of clothing and mannequins and information signs.

Max kept to the shadows the best she could. After circling the second floor twice, she was sure that she was still alone. The lobby would be more difficult, as the front doors were completely clear, but she simply hoped no one was looking in her direction when she made her move. Her sore legs protested the way she crouched as she went down the stairs, feeling like they had endured some awful work-out the day before, but she knew it was a necessity. After peering around the corner and into the lobby—which was empty—Max made a mad dash for the front desk.

She practically threw herself under it, and once she was righted, she started to rummage through the drawers to see if there was anything of use. The only thing she took was an envelope opener, which she tucked into the waistband of her pants. It wasn't one of those incredibly sharp ones (Glenn always had a fear a visitor would use it on the reception staff), but it would do a moderate amount of damage if there was enough force behind it.

After lingering behind the desk for what felt like an eternity, Max ran for the heavy loading dock door. Thankfully, she hadn't locked it after she pushed Glenn and Maxine inside yesterday, though it was still, as always, a challenge to open. Once she was inside, however, she locked it behind her and leaned against the dirty wall. This was the hall where she took all the garbage out to the dumpster. This was where new shipments of merchandise arrived—and delivery guys realized they had to lug everything up one to four flights of stairs. This was where she snuck calls on her phone—as there were no cameras here—and the place she hid during her first week when she felt overwhelmed.

The corridor spanned the length of the building. It was narrow and brightly lit, and the tile was a poorer quality here than anywhere else. When she spotted the double-doors that led to the loading dock at the back of the building, Max practically ran, slamming into the doors and yanking on the handle to get them open.

But they wouldn't open. Blinking rapidly, she pushed and pulled—knowing full well that she only needed to pull—and still nothing happened. The doors gave a little under her struggles, just enough for her to peer through the crack and see that someone had stuck a board through looped handles on the other side.

Maybe Glenn had assumed she would go out the front and hoped to spare her the trouble of new arrivals through the backdoor. However, this only added to her overpowering sense of frustration now. After rattling both doors a few more times, Max slid to the ground and buried her face in her hands to stifle her sobbing. She was trapped—locked in from behind and barricaded from the front.

When she started to feel lightheaded, Max wiped her tears away and leaned her head back against the door—numb. She was probably going to die in here. In here, out there, what did it matter? Aliens were taking over the planet (apparently), and her brother was gone.

Her eyes drifted across the circular room that made up the back loading area, and she paused when she saw a tarp covering something in the corner. Frowning, she eased herself to her feet and marched toward it, yanking the blue material off and tossing it to the side.

Oh. She had forgotten about this. She had forgotten about the beautiful, functional Napoleon cannon that the museum had spent a fortune on recently. They were going to host a display for a couple of middle-school classes next month as a treat. There was a case sitting next to the exquisite weapon, and after using the butt of her rifle to hack the lock off, she marveled at six artillery shells settled neatly amidst the packing essentials.

Max took two steps back, staring at the box. Live artillery. They were going to blow up a farmer's shed down in Newark next month, but she could think of a number of things she would rather blow up now.

She rose, nibbling her lower lip thoughtfully, and then searched the rest of the area for other useful items. After a good fifteen minutes of rummaging through both recycling products and Glenn's tool cabinet, she ended up with quite a haul: paint cans, motor oil, a tool box, planks of wood, matches, and a wooden dolly to help carry everything. She then thought of the immense armory on the fourth floor, along with all the artillery that was locked away in storage.

If Nolan had been here with all these weapons, he wouldn't have spent all his time hiding in Glenn's office. The thought gave her courage, even if it was the fake sort of courage that would disappear in an hour or so. Mind racing with ideas—anything to keep from actual _thinking_—Max walked back down the service corridor. Maybe she would die in this building, and maybe death would be outside somewhere, but she now had the capability of killing a few of _them_ in the process.

It would probably take the rest of her day to get everything ready, but if _Home Alone_ taught her anything, all her efforts would have hilarious and painfully crippling results.

She smiled at the thought. Was this what giving up felt like? Maybe. At least it was giving up with pizazz.

* * *

There was no sun the following morning. In fact, it had disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds the previous afternoon and Max hadn't seen it since. The skies looked like they wanted to pour, but so far the weather had held steady. The museum's air conditioning kept the building comfortable, though she wondered how long the power would last.

Thankfully, her museum remained her fortress. While she spent the day sneaking between the loading area and the various other floors, she stayed the only occupant of the building. Sometimes she would stop to watch the soldiers outside. Their numbers grew and shrank over the course of the previous day, but there was still a small contingent that remained behind with the prisoners. There seemed to be some sort of fuss over the antique shop across the street, but Max stopped paying attention to it when she realized the two stationary guards hadn't moved all day.

Although _Home Alone_ had been her inspiration for her impending attack, Max knew this was going to be far more deadly for everyone involved—herself included. The storage room on the fourth floor had a substantial amount of extra ammunition, and considering there was one floor dedicated solely to weapons, Max had more than enough firepower to choose from. Unfortunately, some of the weapons on display were known for their inaccuracy. Some of the rifles also required a lengthy reloading time that she didn't have, so she stuck with the Spencer carbine and the Sharps rifle. Both had nice leather straps that allowed her to sling them over her shoulders.

She also swapped the letter-opener for an actual knife, though she hoped she wouldn't need to use it.

The rest of the museum was lined with various defenses, though she needed to trigger most of them herself. With the few tools she had, Max was able to create a few guaranteed death traps, while the rest would simply slow an assailant down long enough for her to make a run for it.

She finished around four that morning, and before she went to sleep, she scrubbed Nolan's blood off the floor. She wasn't sure what had made her to do it—exhaustion or an unstable mind, perhaps? However, when she was finished, she felt better. She was still shaking and numb and horrified, but it was therapeutic to get the space cleaned.

After only a few hours of sleep (staggered and not at all restful), Max finished off the food in the fridge and checked on the caged prisoners outside. Sure enough, all sixteen people were still in that cage; today was going to be for them.

And Nolan.

She wished she had something to put on her feet, but the only shoes she had would be too noisy on the tile floor. So, she opted to remain barefoot. The one item she did add to her wardrobe was a gas mark courtesy of Glenn's paranoia. It was heavy and a little difficult to see in, but if she did manage to escape today, she would rather no one knew what she looked like. With her hair swept up and tucked beneath the hard straps, Max decided she looked fairly unrecognizable, but obviously a woman—the silk blouse didn't really hide much.

As she descended through the various floors, Max checked to see that nothing had been disturbed while she slept, and sure enough, everything was as it was supposed to be. She took the left staircase into the lobby, as the right was coated with a thick layer of motor oil. Same as before, she was able to sneak into the service corridor undetected, though her breath was ragged by the time she reached the cannon. Her limbs trembled, and for a moment, she stood there staring at the device. It was a relatively small model and propped up onto a dolly—moving it wasn't the problem.

She was about to bring chaos back into her life. In all actuality, she could have tried to hide in the museum until the soldiers moved on. She could have waited, but that seemed like the silly thing to do.

Somehow.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the handle of the dolly and pulled with all her might. It wasn't impossible to move, but by the time she reached the door at the end of the hall, she was already tired. She paused to shake everything out, redistributing the nervous energy to all parts of her body, and then resumed hauling the thing out the door. Thankfully, she had loaded it the night before—one of those beautiful, lethal shells was just waiting to do some damage.

What would really cinch the deal, however, were the two hand grenades tucked into her pants. They were extremely rare—Ketchum's patent hand grenades, in fact—and Glenn had spent a fortune on them, but she knew for a fact that they were still operational.

Luckily enough, no one bothered to spare a glance at the museum. Most were doing whatever they were supposed to be doing when Max wheeled the cannon up to one of the front doors. There was a cluster of them around a table to her far right, a few more crowded by the food tent, and then the prisoners on her far left. She stepped around the large wheel, her hands shaking, and made the final preparations to fire the cannon. This was something she had only read about in theory—the guns she had been practicing on for the last year, but this was something new entirely.

Normally, there would be six or seven other people helping her with this, and the longer she struggled to get everything loaded, the harder her heart pounded in her chest. With the necessary powder poured in, Max grabbed the packet of matches tucked under her bra strap and lit one, then dropped it into the priming hole.

She then darted around the cannon and propped the door open, not wanting to get hit with shards of Plexiglas when the shell went through it.

And then it fired. Her ears rang after the shell shot from the cannon, but it was all worth it: the artillery slammed into the table, and the contact explosion sent the men around it flying. Chunks of wood and debris damaged the nearby tent, and the smoke billowing from both the cannon and the explosion made her glad paranoid Glenn had this damn smoke mask.

There were men screaming and stumbling and crawling away, but Max had her sights set on the prisoners. She raced through a nearby door and down the steps, skipping one and nearly falling for her haste. The distraction was enough to get her down to the cage, and several of the prisoners anticipated her arrival.

"The lock," an older man shouted, pointing down at a heavyset lock holding the door closed. "Break it!"

She tried to do as she was told, slamming the butt end of her gun onto the weakest looking point, but it was much harder in reality than it was in the movies. Max gritted her teeth, throwing everything she had into it, but whirled around when the same man warned her about oncoming soldiers. They were running at her, and before she had a moment to panic, she pulled one of those pricey hand grenades out and lobbed it at them. One had the audacity to catch it, and the contact set off the trigger point inside the old weapon. A second later, the idiot was in bits and pieces across the pavement, black liquid oozing everywhere.

The second managed to avoid the explosion, but she picked him off with a shot to the shoulder. It wasn't lethal, but at least she hit him.

She was really shaking now. However, a few more precise hits managed to break the lock enough for the man inside to twist it off, and Max helped him yank the cage door open. She then turned and fired two more shots at the uniformed assailants. When she saw one raise a gun to her, she bolted, racing back up the steps and toward the museum. She caught the reflection of a group chasing after her, a few stray shots shattering the remaining doors.

Thankfully, she was through the lobby and up the stairs before anyone could get to her—she had never run so fast in her entire life. The inside of the mask was slightly fogged from her heaving breath, but she tried her best to work around it.

Once she was at the top of the stairs, she spilled the remainder of her motor oil down the steps, coating them in a slick layer. Waiting just out of sight, Max grabbed the nearby paint can. She could hear men grunting and slipping on the tainted stairs, and when she heard one reach the top—after a good two minutes of cursing in a language she couldn't understand—she swung the paint can with all her might and nailed him right in the face.

He toppled back onto his companions, and as he reached for his gun, Max lit another match and flicked it onto the oil stain. Seconds later, the stairwell was a blaze with screaming men and melting skin. The museum was rebuilt with fire resistant walls: they would burn still, but at least it was only a slow burn. Hopefully someone down there would have enough sense to put the flames out—hopefully.

She turned back to the second floor, took a moment to apologize to the precious artefacts glaring at her, and then darted inward to her next trap.

* * *

Loki had been dozing when the second explosion went off. His eyes snapped open and he sat up, leaning just enough to see through the glass door of the shop. For a moment, he wondered if the Pagurolids were testing more weaponry, but when he saw some commotion outside—smoke, flames, scrambling uniformed men—he assumed this was anything but routine.

After straightening his attire, he sauntered casually toward the doorway to get a better look. He had been stuck in this damn shop since he arrived, and if the poor quality of food didn't kill him, boredom might. He shouldn't complain: anything was better than the pit. However, he would have preferred to at least earn some walking privileges.

His guards were distracted. They seemed unable to decide if they ought to help corral the running humans back into their cage—somehow they had escaped in the calamity?—or if they should stay at their post. Taking their indecision as a weakness, Loki pushed the door open and arched an eyebrow.

"What's happened?"

"Someone in the building launched an attack," one of the guards insisted absently, his large brown eyes following scattered humans. The others had wrangled up three of the elderly back into the cage, but the others seemed long gone. "We…"

He trailed off at the sound of horrified shrieking, and Loki glanced up toward the Civil War museum as the clamour intensified. Moments later, a ball of fire rolled down the steps, screaming and begging for relief. His companions rushed forward, dousing the flames the best they could, but by the time they had extinguished some, Loki could tell this particular shell was wasted. The Pagurolid inside was probably hurting too—he was under the assumption that the nerves of the two species fused somewhat during the takeover.

"Perhaps," Loki started, seeing a possible chance for escape in the chaos. There was no back exit to the shop, unfortunately, which meant this was his only way out. "Perhaps you ought to see to your companion—"

"Get the king out!" He heard someone shout the order from his left, and his grip tightened on the doorframe when he felt a familiar blinding intensity coming from his tooth. In his weakness, his guards were able to drag him outside and hold him there. A higher-ranking Pagurolid soon stood in front of him, and Loki wondered if this creature controlled the trigger for his pain dosages. A quick sweep of his person said no, but he could never be sure.

"This is no way to handle a king," Loki spat, straightening up as the lingering shocks of pain fizzled out.

"You're going inside," the Pagurolid told him, his voice crackly and thick. "Your skin is made of stronger stuff—"

"Yes, you did pick a somewhat _weak_ race to inhabit," he mused. Physically weak, anyway. He then nodded toward the building. "Can you not handle one simple human?"

He tensed, waiting for the pain to resume, but when there was nothing, he smirked at the glowering Pagurolid. However, rather than addressing the comment, the man spoke to Loki's bodyguards.

"Take him inside and bring us the human…" He licked his lips. "We will need to replace the brother we lost."

Loki saw that the Pagurolid who had been lit on fire had officially lost its skin, and its fellow creatures were already starting to undo the stitching down the man's stomach to extricate it. They would need to move quickly or the air would kill it—Loki planned to stroll through the museum with leisure.

"Come along."

He glanced down at the hand on his arm, and then moved as though he was being pulled. By now, his strength was almost entirely recovered: a good meal and sleep had done wonders for his abilities. Unfortunately, there were still too many of them for an escape, and _where_ would he even go here? Stark's fallen tower?

Hmm. That was an idea, actually.

He marched up the wide steps slowly, taking in the trail of black blood in the process. His guards tried to make him move faster, but when they were out of eyesight from the rest of the camp, he used his full weight to keep them at the pace he desired. His eyes swept across the foyer. There were damaged displays everywhere, and Pagurolid soldiers battling the flames on one of the stairwells behind a large desk. Loki opted to take the staircase that was _not_ on fire, though the steps were slick with some substance that made him slide from side to side.

His bodyguards were worse than he was, and Loki carried on without them. The second floor was a mess. There were fallen uniformed Pagurolids everywhere—some were digging nails out of their shoes, while another held his face. It appeared to have been scalded with some sort of hot liquid, and Loki could see the flesh starting to bubble as the Pagurolid panicked. No one seemed to pay him any attention, but he was extra alert for any other traps waiting to be sprung.

One of his bodyguards tripped over a wire of some sort, which had been strung across the hallway to catch incomers. Loki grinned and simply stepped over the trick, making a big show to highlight the creature's inadequacies. The third floor of the building was where Loki found dead Pagurolids. They appeared to have been shot, mostly from behind, and lay bleeding on the floor. This was where his bodyguards stopped, kneeling down to aid their fallen comrades.

Rather than wait, Loki sauntered toward the staircase once more. Hands clasped behind his back, he took to the next set of stairs with curiosity. He wanted to see the human who had murdered so many Pagurolids while evading capture. At this point, he wasn't sure if he would turn the person in or not—that would depend on the manner of their meeting.

The fourth and final floor of the building was completely silent. There were no Pagurolids anywhere—dead or otherwise—and Loki proceeded into the low lighting with caution. There were tables of weapons everywhere, and he paused at one to examine a knife collection. It was then, out of nowhere, that a shot was fired at him from behind. It missed, grazing his arm and denting his sleeve, and Loki whirled around to face the attacker. However, the person—a woman, funnily enough—tore off toward the stairwell. Had she thought she could simply kill him with a single shot and be done with it?

At least have the accuracy to _hit_ him. Loki rolled his eyes, but he still raced after her, closing the distance between them with a few long strides. When he was close, she shot at him over her shoulder, and he stepped to the side to avoid the bullet.

She was halfway down the first flight of stairs when Loki decided the bint was not going to the Pagurolids—no one shoots at him_ twice_ and expects to live. There was a mask covering her facial features, but Loki could see the whites of her eyes clearly when he leapt over the railing and landed in front of her. She raised her rifle, but Loki was faster: he grabbed the weapon and slammed it against the wall, shattering it. Then, out of frustration for her audacity more than anything, he grabbed the snout of her mask and ripped it forward, dragging it from her face and tossing it to the side.

He wanted to show her—show her what would happen when someone tries to hurt him. He wouldn't hand her over to the Pagurolids. No, he would smear her tissue across the wall for her insolence.

"Loki?"

Her voice was breathy and quivering as he bore down upon her, but that brought his attention to her face. Familiarity.

He stopped, jaw slack as his gaze met a pair of brown eyes he had not seen in an age. They were watering now as she pressed against the wall behind her.

"Max…"

The name was strange in his mouth. It was a word he hadn't said since he left Earth. Unwilling to blink (lest the face change and reveal that this was some illusion), he reached for her hesitantly. However, before he could touch her skin—feel its warmth—she slipped under his arm and stumbled down the stairs. She tripped on the bottom of her trousers, but caught herself on the railing as she fled.

He stayed still in her absence, stunned at the turn of events. It wasn't until he heard her horrified, gut-wrenching scream two floors down that he snapped into action. Without another thought, Loki took the stairs two at a time, hoping that he wasn't too late.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**SO. This was initially going to be two chapters. However, all the reviewers were just so keen on Loki and Max meeting up again that I didn't want to drag anything on. I know it wasn't much of a meeting, but they'll have more face time in the next chapter—and goodness, it's going to be dramatic. **

**Max got a little bit of hate for the last chapter, and I'm not going to defend her. Reactions to what she does are going to be in a range, and I like that. She's really just trying her best in a situation that she's never been in before—only read about, really. There are going to be a lot of things that I'm sure she regrets in the future, but she's human. It happens. I tried my best to make her handling of the weapons as realistic as I could. The cannon bit maybe not so much, but... deal with it -slides sunglasses on-. **

**You all had such tremendous feedback for the last chapter! I really appreciated your kind words, and I'm so happy that my more action-y scenes were received well. Kind of like smut, I think writing good action can be difficult, and I'm still learning (we all are, really) to get everything right. So thank you. **

**You're all my FAVOURITES. The amazing feedback literally makes me want to start working on the next chapter right away, but I'm trying not to kill my wrists. But. It's very tempting. **

**See you soon, dearies! The wild ride continues! **


	4. Why are you my clarity?

Max hugged her knees to her chest and tried to readjust her position so that some part of her body wasn't in pain. Unfortunately, no matter which way she shifted, there was zero chance of getting comfortable with concrete below her and chain-link behind her, so she had to accept the throbbing ache—which was especially prominent in her lower back—as something that was there to stay. The other seven people in the cage seemed equally uncomfortable, and there was constant fidgeting as people rearranged themselves in a new spot.

Loki was here. _Loki_. Loki, who she hadn't seen in over two years, was sitting in the antique furniture shop just twenty feet away. Loki, who she stopped obsessing over halfway through her fourth year, was King Shit yet again, and the uniformed guards appeared to be his pawns. She wasn't sure if he had known that she was in the museum, as he appeared genuinely surprised to see her after he nearly murdered her in a stairwell, but she couldn't imagine his presence was a good thing.

Her eyes flickered toward the store. The windows remained covered, and there were two guards standing watch over the door. Loki had disappeared inside shortly after she was thrown into the cage, and Max hadn't seen or heard from him in several long hours. She did, however, watch the uniformed men drag out all the bodies she had dispensed with during the assault on the museum—that managed to put a smile on her face, even if it was a strained one.

Almost all of her tricks and traps had worked. The building didn't burn down, but she could smell charred flesh when they hauled her outside in the aftermath. She scalded one soldier so badly with a kettle of boiling water that he was rushed away in a hurry, and many more were stuck of nails in their feet and shoes. The rest were missing parts of their skulls, which Max aimed specifically for from her shadowy hiding places on the third floor. The guns she used were loaded beforehand, and she simply ran from one to the next, praying none of them would stall or break due to their intermittent usage.

And then he came. Loki strolled through the fourth floor out of nowhere, and Max hadn't recognized him initially. Her body was pounding with so much adrenaline that her hands were shaking. Her breathing was a mess, which fogged the eye sockets of the gas mask. Initially, all she knew was that there was another enemy wandering through the fourth floor, and she planned to take him out—he deserved it. But she missed. She missed and he lived, and it was then that she decided to make a run for it. She assumed people would be too busy with the rest of the chaos that she could slip away unnoticed through the front door.

It was a stupid plan, but she was surprised that _any_ of her ideas had worked up until that point.

Unfortunately, he was faster than her, and he caught up with her before she could get very far. He had ripped the mask from her face, tearing out clumps of hair in the process, and thrown her back against the wall. And then she saw him—the real him. Loki looked thinner than she remembered, with sharp cheekbones and dark rings around his eyes. He was wearing some sort of ceremonial garb that she had never seen before, though it looked reminiscent of the photos that were once his secret identity's undoing.

He had looked enraged—he practically snarled as he descended down upon her. In his fury, she knew he didn't recognize her as quickly as she recognized him, and she squeaked his name in the hope that it would jar his memory. Calm him. Something. It worked, thankfully, but Max couldn't stay there with him. He was the enemy now. She recalled ducking away from his wandering hand and almost falling down the stairs in her haste.

Unfortunately, they had been waiting for her on the second floor, and when a pair of hands gripped her and threw her to the ground, Max finally let out the scream she had been holding in since she saw Nolan die. It tore at her throat and reverberated through the hallways, and when she was finished, she was _finished_. She was ready for someone to put a bullet in her head—ready to be done with all of it. The soldiers seemed ready to do it too, but that was until Loki interfered. She wasn't sure what he told them, away in their hushed conversations, but before she knew it, two men were dragging her out of the museum and into the cage.

And that was where she had been. No one spoke to her when she scuttled across the ground and situated herself in the back corner, and Max preferred it that way. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She wanted to sink into the ground and disappear—go someplace that wasn't being occupied by Loki and his people.

A part of her just couldn't accept that Loki would cause this much destruction—again. When they had last spoke, he insisted that he had learned his lesson, that his issues with Earth and its people were long behind him, and yet here he was demolishing Manhattan with an army of thugs.

Everything hurt. The headache that had started about an hour ago was now clawing at the inside of her skull, desperate for relief. Shoes would have done her tender and sore feet a world of good. The muscles in her arms were stiff from carrying weapons. She was sure her knees were bruised under her sweatpants—hell, there were dozens of bruises starting to surface that she didn't realize she would get. Her face felt swollen from crying the day before. She was hungry—everything inside her felt painfully hollow, like her stomach was collapsing in on itself.

The day remained cloudy, which meant she didn't have to worry about getting a painful sunburn on top of camping out on dirty pavement. The others in the cage were the ones she suspected would struggle to get away: elderly, young, out of shape people who were unfortunate enough to be caught for a second time. She knew no one, and she was sure she would have nothing in common with them if she talked to them. Not that she wanted to talk. She wanted to sit and be miserable and hate everyone in a dark uniform. She wanted to mourn Nolan properly, but that part of her brain stayed locked tight, unwilling to budge unless she really dug her fingers into it.

The sound of the lock—a new one that was large and intimidating and pointed out to her when a soldier first shoved her in here—opening caught her attention, and Max looked up from her dirty trackpants to see an unfamiliar face opening the cage. He had no pot of food in hand, and she swore she saw one of her fellow prisoners deflate a little at the realization. There were two other soldiers standing at the door—perhaps to intimidate potential flight risks—and Max shuffled back against the steely cage behind her as the fellow approached her.

He said nothing, but when he grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her to her feet, his intentions were pretty clear.

"Hey, man, leave her alone."

An elderly man spoke up as Max struggled to stay upright, adrenaline surging back through her limbs. Apparently, her body wasn't ready to quite yet: her mind may be in the process of breaking down, but the rest of her didn't want to go quietly.

"You're hurting me," Max hissed, nodding down pointedly to the black gloved hand wrapped around her wrist. The man continued to haul her along without acknowledging the sentiment, and when her elderly rescuer spoke again, another uniformed man swept in with a baton drawn. The rest of the prisoners scattered as her hero held up his hands defensively, and Max winced when the soldier brought down the full brunt of his weapon.

"Come along—"

"Stop!" She wriggled the best she could, eyes wide with horror as the beating continued. Once she was free from the cage, Max used her spare hand to fight against the one wrapped around her wrist, and when the movement of a sleeve revealed some pale white flesh underneath, Max sunk her teeth into it with everything she had in her. The guard howled when she tasted a warm liquid in her mouth, and he immediately released her. She staggered away, and when she nudged into another body, she swung back with her elbow. It collided with something solid, which earned her another yelp, and Max darted under an outstretched arm and broke off into a run.

She wiped her hand across her mouth and nearly gagged when she saw a black smear mixed with saliva. Unfortunately, she didn't make it very far. The pavement made her bare feet weep, and she wasn't more than ten feet away from the cage when something slammed against her calves, and Max plummeted toward the ground. She had the good sense to break her fall with her hands, but that didn't stop the rest of her body was colliding with the solid surface harshly enough to wind her.

Her palms prickled with a familiar pain as she tried to get up, happy that she hadn't knocked her chin or face in any way. However, a pair of hands rolled her onto her back before she could wriggle loose, and Max screamed right into the face of the man she had just escaped from.

"Now, now," he sneered, catching her hands and pinning them down. "None of that, none of that."

"Get off me!"

"You're going to see the king, little girl," he told her, releasing her wrists and curving an arm under her waist to drag her upward. When the tips of his gloved fingers touched her stomach, she screamed again, swinging wildly and shoving against him.

"Don't you want to meet the king?" The question was posed by the other soldier. Max noticed his eye was starting to bruise, and she hoped that had been her elbow's doing. "He's so very _keen_ to see you."

The way he leered at her made her shriek again, and she knew in that moment they were taunting her on purpose. They were using her gender against her, as if being a woman in this situation was the worst thing on the planet. So she fought the best she could. She wasn't sure who "the king" was—she assumed they meant Loki—but she wasn't about to make it easy on them. Not when they hinted and suggested and grinned like idiots.

At one point, the guard dragging her threw her up over his shoulder, but Max resorted to slamming her knees into his plated chest with as much force as she could muster. Finally, with a frustrated grunt, she was back on her feet with her head wrenched back by her hair, and he forced her to walk with a gun resting on her spinal cord.

When she felt the barrel pressed to her back, Max realized she didn't really want to die. She was ready to crumble, to fall and stay down, but she didn't want to end her life here—not by their hands. So, she walked with hesitant purpose, her eyes wide and watching the guards waiting on either side of the antique shop's door. One opened it as she was marched forward, and before she could get her bearings—before she could mentally prepare herself to face the man she had once dressed up as a king—she was shoved inside so forcefully that she tripped over her pants and ended up on her knees.

"She's all yours, my king!"

The statement was followed by a bout of hideous laughter, and Max's entire person shook as the sound tapered off when the door shut. He didn't come to her aid, but she could feel eyes on her as she sat there on all fours. The tile floor was cool against her palms, but her knees wouldn't let her stay like that for long. Finally, when she felt like everything was going to buckle and she'd simply collapse, Max used the wall to push herself to her feet.

He was nearer than she expected, and once she had straightened up, Max pushed her shoulders back and simply stared at him. It took everything in her not to cry, and she really, really wanted to. She wanted to collapse against his chest, to make use of their familiarity—but she stayed stock still. His eyes wandered up and down her frame brazenly; not sexually, but curiously, and there was a crease in his forehead that might have indicated concern.

Max didn't need to look at his body—she had seen him in the stairwell. Instead, she wanted to meet his gaze, to let him see the face of the people his troops were brutalizing.

She wished she could stop shaking.

"You have blood on your mouth." Her eyebrows shot up as he snatched a cream-coloured napkin off a table, and then held it out for her to take. He didn't move toward her, and Max kept her feet planted, eyes narrowing.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Max—"

"I mean it," she continued. Her teeth were starting to chatter from the anxiety, from the nervous energy, from the adrenaline, and from the pain. "Fuck _you_ and them and everything you've brought here."

"I didn't—"

"Those are people in that cage!" Her voice broke as she pointed in the vague direction of the holding cell. "They're people, not animals! _I'm_ a person!"

"It was either put you in the cage, or they'd kill you," he hissed, throwing the napkin back down and marching toward her. She hiccupped as a few rogue tears rolled down her cheeks, but she brushed them away and took a deep breath, steeling herself for his approach. She could take it. She _would_ take it.

"Is that what you tell yourself?" she demanded. His pallor was almost sickly under this light, and she tilted her head up to keep eye contact. "Is that what makes you feel righteous?"

He took her by the arm firmly and dragged her across the store. Then, without another word, he threw her onto the small bed. Maybe the soldiers were right—maybe her gender was her downfall.

"King at last," she whispered as she propped herself up on her elbows. In that moment, she had never been more terrified of him—never. She saw the way his jaw clenched, the way the bones stuck out of his cheeks, and he retreated back suddenly as if she had slapped him. With his back to her, she sat up properly and scuttled back so that she was against the wall, her feet resting on the edge of the bed.

When he returned, his heavy black boots clomping across the once clean floor, Max saw the napkin in his hand again. It was wrapped around his fingers like he intended to clean her, like a mother would a child, but when he stood before her, he simply dropped it onto her knees and took two steps back.

They both stared at the piece of fabric for what felt like an age, but Max gave in first. She grabbed the damn thing and wiped her mouth off, nose wrinkled as she studied the black stains left in the stitching. Then, all dignity forgotten, she scrubbed at the back of her neck and her forehead and her ears. It had been two days since she showered, and while she had rinsed briefly in the public bathroom at work, that was hardly enough.

"I am a prisoner here." His voice was soft when he spoke again, and Max glanced up with a crooked eyebrow. "I am a captive as much as you are."

"Bullshit."

"How long has it been since we last saw one another?" She fiddled with the corner of the napkin, and then glanced up at him. His gaze was so intense—so focused—that it made her feel small. So, she busied herself with the napkin again while he stood in front of her, arms hanging limply by his sides.

"Two years." It almost hurt to say.

"Where do you think I have been all this time?"

"I don't know." She swallowed thickly, finally leaning her head back and taking another calming breath. However, she could still only fix her eyes on the ceiling, and she absently followed the designs in the crown moulding. "Thor said you were taking a breather—"

"_Thor_?" She could practically feel the disdain in his voice, and she merely nodded in response. "Thor knew nothing of my whereabouts."

"I don't care—"

"My enemies found me," he told her sharply, his voice cutting through her words with ease. "They found me and they took me and they punished me for my inability to take Earth the first time."

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" she croaked. Finally, she looked at him, her teeth still chattering lightly. "Why should I believe you now?"

"_Look_ at me, Max," he ordered, holding his arms out and turning. "Physically, I am a shell. I am here because the Pagurolids—"

"The what?"

"The creatures you see outside are _not_ human."

"Nolan said that." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "He… He said that."

She heard him let out a lengthy breath, but he remained where he was—the space between them stayed strong. "They are a race that live inside other creatures. They consume planets and move on… We have always considered them colonists of sorts."

"Oh my _god_." She buried her head in her hands. The headache was tearing at her with a vengeance, reminding her that there was simply so much information waiting to be processed. In the silence that followed, she pushed and pushed and _pushed_ it all down until she could practically feel her temples throbbing.

"I was taken by the Chitauri." Loki's voice was melodic for a moment, like he was some mystical storyteller. Max closed her eyes, her fingers weaving through her dirty hair and tugging. "They were my allies, and my failing was a betrayal. They tortured me in ways you cannot begin to imagine. The Pagurolids have been here since I was last on this planet… and they bartered for my release so that I could be the figurehead of their invasion."

"Why?" With her face buried, she wondered if he had heard her. The silence suggested not, and Max looked up with a sniffle. "Why would they want you?"

"Dressed like this," he gestured down to his body, "and leading an army is familiar to humanity… Their true identities remain a secret, and if things take a foul turn, I am once again to blame for the destruction. A king from another realm explains why humans across the planet are turning against their own kind."

"We're so fucked." She threw the napkin down beside her in a huff and stretched her legs out—her teeth had stopped rattling together. "You're telling me the truth, aren't you?"

His face screwed into a frown, one that looked almost insulted. "What reason would I have to lie?"

"Because I… I read about… you," she admitted, her cheeks flushing when his eyes narrowed. "I read about Loki the Trickster, and the myths and the legends—"

"Grossly exaggerated and seldom true," he said stiffly, which shut her up. "I wouldn't lie to you, Max."

"Why?" She knitted her hands together on her lap, small jolts of pain shooting up her arm from where she fell on them. "Because we used to have sex once upon a time?"

"Hardly."

Even though she hadn't been looking for a real answer, the response hurt her all the same. It was dismissive, and his facial expression barely changed. However, when she spared a glance at his hands, she noticed they were balled into fists. Finally, after the silence grew so heavy that she could practically feel it, Loki turned back to that same table and placed his hands on the surface, his shoulders hunched.

"Do you want something to eat?"

She perked up at the question, and he looked over his shoulder at her. Her stomach gurgled at the thought, and she simply nodded.

"It's cold," he told her. "They delivered it to me this morning…"

Max's eyebrows shot up as he brought her a plate with what appeared to be a whole chicken on it, the kind you picked up from the grocery store when there was no time to cook anything for a get-together. There was a large chunk missing from the side, and when he set it on her lap, she shot him a look.

"I cannot say it's to my taste," he muttered, stepping away when she shifted into a more comfortable position. She then said nothing for a long time, instead opting to pick away at the chicken. Like Loki had said, it was pretty cold, but anything was better than nothing. Once she had devoured both of the legs and worked her way into a breast, she glanced up at him. He was watching her, though she could tell his eyes were only partially focused.

"What did you tell them to get me here?" She didn't really want to make small-talk with him, but the question had been waiting for an answer ever since she was spared.

"I told them that I wanted you." He was so matter-of-fact with the statement that Max could do nothing but nod. "I hinted that I was interested in… They believe I have taken a physical liking to you."

"Right."

"In the sense that I—"

"I've got it, thanks," she said shortly. He pressed his lips together tightly, and then busied himself with his hands. In the meantime, Max resumed shoveling pieces of chicken into her mouth.

"You put up a good fight," he told her as she pulled the juicy skin off the bird. Max's lips curved upward slightly at the compliment. "I was pleased to see you fighting."

"Thanks." She licked her lips. "I'd like to see you do the same sometime, I guess."

"You used a lot of elbow when you were in close quarters with them," Loki continued, pointedly ignoring her comment. "May I ask why?"

Max shrugged. She hadn't exactly been giving it much thought while she fought for her life, but now that she had to dissect it, she came up with a reasonable explanation. "Nolan told me once that the hardest part of my body was my elbow, and if I needed to, I should use it."

"Ah."

She frowned at his tone, her head cocked to the side. "What?"

"Nothing… The man wasn't wrong."

"Okay."

"You looked very… tough—"

"Oh my god!" Her eyes widened as she glowered at him. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, of course not—"

"You totally are!" She wasn't sure if she wanted to scream at him or laugh at the way he tried desperately not to smile, his face twitching unattractively. In the end, she decided to hurl a chicken bone at him, which he easily dodged.

In fact, he even laughed. It was weak and short-lived, but Max felt the weight on her chest lift for a brief, shining moment. When the amusement passed, the weight returned, and Max set her plate aside, suddenly too full to continue.

"So, what do we do now?"

He suddenly swooped forward, leaning over her and resting his hands on either side of her body. Max could feel his breath against her ear—the overwhelming invasion of space made her stiffen, and she tried to push her body back into the wall with everything she had.

"They're watching," he murmured, and she spared a glance toward the door. Sure enough, she could see two vague outlines of bodies standing by the doorframe.

"Gross."

"I'll send them away in a moment," he assured her. Suddenly, his warm hand was on her shoulder, then her neck, then in her hair. Max's breath stuttered, and then she held it. He whispered her name, urged her to relax, but she couldn't—not like this.

"Stop—"

"They'll take you away if they suspect I was lying," he told her. "I won't… Please, you must trust me."

"Loki…"

"Here." He retreated so suddenly that his absence practically tore the breath from her. After readjusting his cape, which seemed to just get in the way, he settled beside her and patted his knee. "Sit here."

"No."

"_Max_."

She shot him a look, one that expressed her feelings perfectly, but he returned it with a look of his own. Sighing, Max dragged her weary body over and sat on his knees, her back to the door and her hands in her lap. He placed a hand at the nape of her neck, but there was barely any pressure behind the hold—she almost forgot it was there as he spoke.

"I have an idea…" His eyes flickered toward the door again before he continued. "I believe I can get us away from them, but I will need your assistance."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he nodded as her eyebrows shot up hopefully. "It will be difficult for me. I will try to endure, but you must help me when it starts."

"When what starts?"

"The pain."

She looked at him sharply, and now that she was so close to his face, she could see the etchings of weariness across his features. Not only was the skin around his eyes heavy and sunken, but the actual colour of his eye seemed faded and dull, like he hadn't seen daylight for a long time.

"Okay," she said finally, nodding a few times. "Whatever you need, I'll do my best to help."

They held one another's gazes for a moment, but this time Loki blinked first. He pointed toward the back right corner of the store.

"There is a bathroom there," he told her. "Make use of it however you need, eat some more, and then we shall leave… I would like to be gone from this place before the sun sets."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Hello you lovely darlings! I'm hoping Max and Loki's first interactions were what you needed! I wanted to get them to a tentative truce for now, but they still have such a long way to go when it comes to sorting out their relationship and how they feel for one another, and how they even view each other. **

**I had a reviewer bring up the idea that Max hasn't really mourned Nolan, and I completely understand why things feel as though they are moving quickly. While I strive for realism in my work—to an almost painful degree sometimes—I felt like I needed to make some creative decisions as the writer of the fic. Namely, I had to decide whether I wanted to spend a chapter or two with Max in mourning and really running through her emotions, or if I wanted to have her tackle these problems over the long haul, but in little chunks. I went with the latter, mostly based on Max's personality up until this point. She doesn't handle conflict and drama and whatnot especially well. She prefers to suppress and ignore rather than deal with things head-on, and she still has a bit of growing up to do in that sense. **

**I always pictured Max and Loki in this weird limbo when they met up again. Like. Yes, they left off in a fight, but they still felt very strongly for one another at the time—dare I say potentially came close to being in love? How do you react when you see that person again? I figured Max would be pissed, yes, but when the truth comes out, how do you handle it? She's doing the best she can, like I said. I think she's muddled, but she's also decided that she wants to survive this thing. **

**You're all amazing for the lovely feedback you've been giving! I'm still in this weird place about this fic… I've planned it all, written it in my head a million times, like what I have plot-wise, but it's just **_**so**_** different from the other story up to this point. I just want to do the characters justice, so I love hearing comments and whatnot from you guys. **

**I think I'll do another update directly after this one, so keep your eyes—and inboxes—open. As always, I post fanfiction updates on my tumblr, which you can find on my profile page. LOVE YOU ALL!**


	5. The Ceiling Can't Hold Us

The antique store's bathroom was probably one of the grosser ones that Max had seen in her history of low-paying employment. The mirror was spotty with water marks and dust, and there were a number of smudges that she didn't want to hazard a guess as to their origins. The garbage basket beside the once white—now grey—sink was in desperate need of a change, and the toilet had a dark brown ring in the bowl that made her hesitate before she sat down.

Her bladder, on the other hand, was far less hesitant than her brain, and before long, she was holding herself up on the seat and feeling sweet relief. She probably smelled pretty atrocious, and since she and Loki had never discussed what abilities he gained as a god, she wasn't sure how pungent her non-showered body was to him. He seemed to show no outward signs of disgust—so very considerate of him—but Max really wished she could sink into a steaming bathtub and bury herself with suds. For now, the questionable bar of soap beneath the mirror would have to do, and Max wasted countless paper towels in her effort to scrub every inch of visible skin—armpits included.

Her blouse was basically done for. The sweat stains under her arms were never going to come out, and there was the black blood of her enemies splattered across the expensive material. Her sweatpants seemed to be holding up a little better under the grimy conditions, but seeing as they were dark grey, they hid the stains better than anything else would. She wished she had a hair elastic around her wrist to manage her progressively greasy locks, but a quick bout of finger-combing with some water made her feel better.

When she finished grooming, Max hovered over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain bowl. Thick brown hair curtained her face—she planned to get it cut next week. It was annoying to plan around her work schedule, but she decided that she would get her hair done this Friday because she and Pat were going to try a new club. They both had the next day free. She bought a dress and everything.

Max shut her eyes, taking a few moments to inhale and exhale when she felt the tremors return. Her elbows shook the most, under both the weight of her upper body and the stress of her situation. Feeling somewhat faint, even with the cold chicken churning in her stomach, she turned on the tap and cupped her hands, gulping down some lukewarm water. The liquid managed to get her head right, and after drying everything one last time, Max opened the door and flicked off the lights.

On her way to the bathroom earlier, she heard Loki asking for privacy from the sentries out front; the thought that they wanted to _watch_ whatever he was going to do to her made her sick—it made her angry. As she returned, Max was pleased to no longer see their hulking forms looming on the other side of the door, but she assumed they hadn't gone far. She glanced at Loki, and then stopped dead in her tracks, gasping without meaning to.

Loki was standing there one moment, and in the next, there was two of him. Identical twins. Identical gods. Identical right down to the last detail of his fraying wardrobe. She blinked a few times, wondering if the sleep deprivation was starting to make her loopy, but when Loki looked at her sharply—one of them looked at her, that is—she realized this was not a hallucination.

"What…?" She licked her lips, pointing at his second self. "What is this?"

"Magic," he said quietly, cracking his knuckles and stretching upward. "Magic will be our escape. I'm still not strong enough to simply whisk us away, so this will have to do."

Max swallowed thickly, the light-headedness returning for a moment. "What will have to do?"

"A distraction," he told her, smirking when her eyebrows shot up. "My replicas require very little of my concentration, and they can act on their own so long as I acknowledge them."

She stared for a moment, eyes darting between the two Lokis standing in front of her, and then nodded. "Right."

"There are fewer soldiers today," he continued, taking a step back and shutting his eyes. He inhaled deeply, the sound making Max tense, and on the exhale, his duplicate split into a duplicate of his—its—own. It was like one of those videos of cells dividing in her old biology lectures, and it was highly unsettling.

"So we're going to overwhelm them with Lokis?"

"We're going to distract them," he said, his tone clipped. "Try to keep up, Max."

"Go fuck yourself."

The demand was less harsh now than it had been when she originally said it, and she swore she saw his lips quirk upward while he observed his two replicas.

"I suspect they will be moving to a more permanent location before the sun sets," Loki muttered. "I noticed them packing up supplies earlier… Now that the violent human has been detained…" He shot her a look. "They can go about their business as usual."

"Good for them."

"It really is, actually." He turned to face her again, beckoning her closer with a small nod. "There will be fewer to chase us."

"Because they'll be busy chasing… you? You plural?"

She worked it out slowly, taking a few steps closer to the original Loki. Her eyebrows furrowed as she surveyed the other two versions of Loki, each one moving and acting on their own. It was like they were on a loop: look left, right, fiddle with cape—which moved realistically—and then spare a glance in her direction.

"They will be chasing me." He had made another replica while she was busy studying the first two, and Max stepped out of the way as the third sidled up to the others. "They will wonder which is the real me, and when they catch one of these, they… Well, touch one."

"I… I don't want to touch him," she told him. She folded her arms over her chest as she surveyed the nearest fake-Loki, and she heard the real one sigh unecessarily.

"Max, you…" He trailed off when she looked at him, eyebrows up, and his eyes narrowed. "Do it."

"Fine," she grumbled, taking a step toward the Loki to her left and hesitantly reaching for his arm. However, rather than touching a solid mass, her fingers slipped right through, and she let out an embarrassing "_Oh!_" in the process.

And then she smiled. She wasn't sure why, but the way Loki was watching her—completely amused with her shock—made her want to laugh. It was unexpected, and Max put her hand through the Loki's chest, which she initially expected to be cold to the touch, and she watched the replica's face contort almost painfully.

"Magic," Loki practically crooned, and when she looked over her shoulder at him, she saw that he too was thrilled with the sight before him. "It's been a very long time since I could do any of this… I learned to duplicate things as a child."

"I learned how to swim without getting water up my nose when I was a kid," Max blurted, genuine awe starting to creep into her expression. "This is amazing."

She meant it—truly and honestly. Now that the shock of seeing double—and not being drunk—wore off, she could actually appreciate the brilliance of what he was able to do. Seeing Thor fly a few years back was the first and only experience she had with real magic, and as she stepped closer to the actual solid Loki, she wondered what else he was capable of now.

Whatever he could do, she hadn't seen any of the invaders whip out a magic wand yet, which meant they had some kind of advantage in their court.

Like before, the happy feelings were only temporary, and as Loki busied himself making several more versions of himself, Max could feel her shoulders slump further and further forward. Even if this plan worked, where were they going to go? What were they going to do? There had to be hundreds of enemy soldiers wandering around the streets of Manhattan—and Max was close to exhaustion. She wasn't quite done for yet, but she hoped she had more fight in her somewhere.

In a matter of minutes, there was a small army of Loki look-alikes standing around her, and she actually lost the real one in the herd. Frowning, she held out her arms and walked until she touched the only solid Loki of the bunch, though the rest reacted rather distastefully whenever she walked through them.

"I hope they can run fast," she muttered, arms folded across her chest as the real Loki gazed down at her. "Those guys put up a hell of a chase."

"They will be able to run as fast as I will them to," he told her. "When you and I eventually leave, do not be upset if my attention is elsewhere."

"I'll get over it somehow."

His lips quirked upward again, but Max stilled when she thought she saw a shadow looming in the doorway. It must have been a trick of the sun, which appeared to be poking through the cloud cover at last, because there was no one in sight when she stood up on her tip-toes for a better view. The other Lokis may have been gaseous in texture, but she wished they were a little easier to look through—it was a little overpowering to be surrounded by this many people, magic or not.

"You will have a small part to play in our escape," Loki insisted. Max nodded slowly: it was only fair that she do something here. "Fall out the door as if I am encroaching upon you. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"And where are we going to go when it's finally our turn to run?" Max asked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He frowned momentarily, and then brushed the question off.

"We will determine that based on the scenario outside."

"Fair enough."

They fell silent, and when Max looked back at him, he was staring at her in disbelief.

"What?"

"Well, I thought we were getting started," he snapped, pointing toward the door, "but if you'd like to stand here and wait for them to discover us in a room full of my replicas—"

"Sorry, I thought you were busy making more Lokis," she shot back, throwing her arms up in the air. "You could have let me know you were done being a splitting atom."

"Just go."

"Fucking hell," she grumbled, marching through a series of duplicates, waving the magical smoke out of her face in the process. Once she had cleared the group, she took a shaky, deep breath, and then turned back. Sure enough, one of the replicas approached her, and his expression was sterner than she had ever seen Loki—literally ever. It would have frightened her if he hadn't been a fake, but it wasn't difficult to look nervous as she stumbled backward toward the door.

He moved quickly, practically floating after her, and although she wasn't the greatest actress in the world, she was able to make her "accidental" fall through the shop's front door look realistic. She stumbled on the bottom of her trackpants, and when she clung to the door's handle, swinging to the side with it, she saw that the guards had moved temporarily to the edge of the farthest window. They were seated on the ledge sharing a drink, and when Max fell out, they both looked up sharply.

She didn't need to say anything. As her bare feet fumbled on the concrete, Loki's replica shot by her, racing passed the guards at an almost inhuman speed. Max tried to look just as shocked as her captors were, and as they rose to their feet, she scrambled back inside while another two Lokis made their run for freedom.

"Maybe stagger them a little?" she suggested as she hurried back to the original Loki, who was sending out his magical clones in such a flurry of movement that it made her need to lean against something.

"No," he remarked, his eyes on the front windows. "This needs to be done quickly."

"Are they all going in different directions at least?"

He finally looked at her, so completely and utterly unimpressed with the question that Max actually felt a little dumb. Whatever. A lack of sleep, food, and all the horror she had seen in the last two days justified the occasional silly question.

"Go to that side," he ordered suddenly, and Max darted across the room. When he motioned toward her, she crouched down behind one of the ornate chairs, clutching its side. Loki, meanwhile, grabbed a fire iron from the set by the fake mantel, and before Max could get another word in, he was forced to use it. A lone guard strode in, and Loki slammed the iron rod into his head so soundly that his helmet cracked.

Max covered her mouth with her hands to keep from making a sound and then sunk behind the chair as Loki continued pummeling the guard. The man's screams sounded otherworldly, but they were short-lived. When she was sure it was over, she hauled herself to her feet and stepped forward—they needed to go.

There were no words for the absolute devastation that Loki wrecked on the man's body. There was black blood everywhere. His clothes were ripped, his teeth were gone, and every finger was crooked at an odd angle. Loki appeared fine; his expression was steely, but there were no marks on him—the guard didn't even get a swing in before he died.

"Let's go." She couldn't move. Her body was paralyzed as she stared at the broken mess of a human—no, not a human—on the ground in front of her. When he spoke again, Loki's voice was less distant, more in the present moment, and Max snapped to attention. "Now, Max."

"Yup."

She followed him toward the door, sidestepping the body and pools of blood. Her face felt numb. In fact, every part of her body did, and her legs were starting to get a little wobbly. She took a deep breath, stopping when Loki did in the doorway, and then jumped up and down for a moment: spread the adrenaline everywhere, because she was going to need it.

"Stay close," he said over his shoulder. "Tell me if you cannot keep up and I will slow down."

"Okay."

More running. She had done more running in the last two days than she had done all year, and she wasn't sure how her legs were keeping up with the workload. Still, this was survival, and she knew the effort was a necessity.

Fire poker in hand, Loki stepped out of the store gingerly with Max on his tail. It appeared that the majority of the soldier population had scattered, hopefully off chasing alternate versions of Loki. There were a few lingering: two hurrying into the entrance of her museum and four standing on the other side of the cage—they appeared to be in conversation.

She tugged on his cape, and when he glanced back irritably, she pointed toward the caged prisoners. Loki shook his head, beckoning her to follow him in the opposite direction, but she stopped.

"We should help them."

"That is not our responsibility, Max."

"Well, no one else is going to do it!" She thought of the man who stood up for her, the one who probably broke a few fingers for his courage, and she didn't feel right leaving him in there while she ran for freedom. "Loki, just break the—"

"They'll see," he hissed, taking her by the wrist and yanking her away. "Come along."

"No—"

"Max!" He whirled back and came down to her eye-level, which made her words catch in her throat. "This is no time for human morality or civility. If you want to leave, we need to leave… now."

She knew he was right, of course, but her conscience didn't want to listen. "But…"

In the end, Loki's reasoning won out, and he pulled her along without another word. They crept by the food tent quietly—it smelled like rotted flesh, and Max swallowed down her nausea.

She thought they were in the clear once they passed the very last tent in the row, but it was then that she heard a gunshot. A store window by her left shoulder shattered; without looking back, Loki started to run. She tried to keep up, but his legs were too long and his pace too quick. They tore down the narrow street, avoiding gunfire and bits of rubble in the process. Her feet were screaming as they pounded against the pavement, but Max kept her eyes on Loki's back: all she needed to do was keep up.

He slowed at the street corner, and when she was close enough, he held out his hand for her. Max took it, glad that he could just pull her along. Her palm was sweaty—his was not—and Max heard a rabble of voices behind them; they had escaped, but their freedom could be short-lived.

Loki paused again. Max hid behind him, panting so hard that her chest hurt, and she watched as two uniformed guards rounded the corner behind them. The fire poker came in handy again—this time as a spear. Loki's aim was incredibly precise: he hurled the iron tool across the distance between them and the enemy, and Max peered out from under his arm just in time to see it impale a man in the neck. His companion stopped to help him, laying the injured guard down and tugging on the fire poker.

"Good shot." Loki said nothing to her meek praise. Instead, he took her by the hand again and pulled her down the street. There were no other people to be seen, but Max wasn't looking for people—she had her eyes peeled for dark uniforms and men with guns, but definitely not people.

When they turned on to Park Avenue, it seemed their luck had changed. Loki suddenly fell to his knees, squeezing her hand so hard that she swore something cracked.

"Ow!" She only managed to get her hand free because it was sweaty enough to slip out of his grip. "What? What's wrong?"

He responded with a strangled howl, eyes clenched shut and mouth contorted.

"Loki!"

"I t-told you," he ground out. "The… The pain would…"

He groaned, collapsing down on the sidewalk while Max stared at him. She didn't know what to do—not one bit. The cement split when he slammed his fist against it, and for a moment, Max simply watched his writhe in agony.

And in that moment, she realized she could just leave him there. She could turn and run; she might have been a "violent human", but he was the one they were after. There were plenty of nearby buildings she could hide in—they'd probably stop looking once they found Loki.

But she couldn't do that. Apparently, human morality had a part to play in every situation. Her eyes narrowed at him, and as she heard a clamor from the nearby avenue, she grabbed him by the cape and tried to tug him upward.

"Get up," she ordered, speaking to him over the sounds of his agony. "Push through it and _get up_!"

He felt like a pile of bricks when she tried to haul him to his feet by his arm—she didn't remember him being this heavy.

"If you don't get up, they're going to find us, and I can't fight them off," she tried to sound reasonable, not hysterical, but her voice kept cracking and breaking. "Loki, they'll take you back and they'll probably just kill me… Please, get up!"

That seemed to get through to him. Max couldn't imagine the kind of pain he was in, but that couldn't be a factor in their escape. He managed to push his body up—without her help, though she tried all the same—but once he was on his feet, he collapsed onto her. His sheer heaviness made her knees buckle, and Max winced when they slammed onto the sidewalk.

"Come on, man," she hissed, pushing up against him. He was sprawled across her back, groaning and panting, and Max tried to lift with her legs—unsuccessfully. "You're a god, for fuck's sake!"

His second attempt to stand was marginally better, and Max wrapped his arm around her to help keep him stable.

"We need to get it out," he managed. "It's… They control it… It's in my mouth."

"What?"

Her ears perked when she heard voices—much closer this time—and she let out a shaky breath.

"Okay, okay, we'll… we'll deal with it," she muttered, her fingertips digging into his side when he started to buckle again. "We'll hide for now… Here."

She nodded toward a plumbing supplies store, and Loki moved with what appeared to be an excessive amount of effort. Just as they walked up to the door, Max heard a siren shrieking in the distance—either something had gone wrong, or they were announcing Loki's disappearance to the city. Trembling under both the weight of her anxiety _and_ Loki, Max tried the front door of the shop—it was locked.

"For fuck's sake," she cried, rattling the handle and peering inside. She couldn't see anyone, and it seemed the owners had the good sense to lock up their wares before they made a run for it. "Come _on_!"

Loki grunted meekly, leaning on her so heavily that she felt like falling again, and then slammed his fist into the Plexiglas door. The thing shattered in an instant, and Max let him tumble inside on his own. She hurried in after him, crying out when shards of the door stuck in her feet, but she soon found a place behind the cash desk that offered them enough protection from the front windows. Loki hunched up in the corner—mostly because he was too big to fit under the counter comfortably—and Max crouched at his side, her hand on his shoulder.

He hissed to the touch, but when she saw shadows cross over the wall, she planted a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. She could feel him shaking, see the pain in his eyes, and while she just wanted to help, it was more important that they stay hidden.

She held her breath when she heard someone at the door, and Max wished she had locked them in a bathroom or back office—this wasn't a very good hiding spot. She placed her other hand over Loki's mouth when he groaned weakly, shooting him a very pointed look to keep quiet, but it seemed like he couldn't help himself.

"Someone spotted the girl two streets over," a voice stated suddenly, and Max ducked her head down when she realized how close they were. "He can't be far away."

The voices trailed off shortly after, but Max kept Loki pinned under the counter for a long time. His eyes were starting to water, and when she was sure they were gone, she hesitantly poked her head out to check. With her hands off him, Loki turned onto his side, face screwed in agony.

"Okay, okay, they're gone," she murmured, coming back to his side. "Let me see it. Can we get it out?"

"They… They put it in," he stated through gritted teeth. "I am sure we can remove it too."

"Right," she nodded, trying her best to speak in a soothing voice. "Let's see it then."

She helped him settle onto his back, though he flinched every time she touched him. Once he was relatively flat, she waited for him to open his mouth, kneeling by his head. The lighting wasn't the greatest, but even without it, Max could see the festering black molar—she assumed that was the source of the pain. The gums around it were inflamed and red, and the tooth appeared to be too big for the hole it was slotted into.

"Oh my god…"

"F-Find something to pull it out with," he instructed, brushing her hands away from his mouth. "Hurry..."

She nodded, but as soon as she was up, her knees buckled: there were still pieces of Plexiglas stuck in her feet. After picking them out, ignoring the way Loki cursed profusely nearby, Max hobbled around the store to find something that might be useful. In the end, she found two pairs of pliers that seemed to be the right size, but she had no idea how she was going to pull a tooth out of someone's mouth.

On her way back to the cash counter, she realized she had been leaving faint bloody footprints all over the store's white floor. She checked both feet: they were bleeding, but it wasn't horrible yet. The pain was manageable, but each step made it just a little bit worse.

"Here," she whispered as she kneeled down beside him again. Loki had rolled onto his side again. "I think these are the best shot we have… Everything else is too big."

"Do it quickly." He eased himself on to his back and opened his mouth. She licked her lips, a pair of the smaller pliers in hand, and then took a deep breath. "Max, do it."

"Okay, okay," she hissed, resisting the urge to smack him. "I'm working up to it."

Pushing his mouth open by his chin, Max stuck the damn plier in there and tried to get the clamps around the tooth. Unfortunately, she nicked the gum on the first go, which made him flail and groan, and she winced: this was going to be even more difficult than she anticipated.

He glared up at her as she tried a few more times to get at the tooth, his hand digging painfully into her leg, and she huffed at him.

"I don't pull people's teeth out for fun," she practically shouted at him, her pent-up frustration and stress at a breaking point. "Don't look at me like that!"

He shoved her away and took the pliers from her hand. "I'll do it myself then."

Both of their strength was required to get him into an upright position against the wall, and Max practically straddled one of his legs so that she could get at the proper angle to help him.

"We'll do it together," she told him as he groped blindly for the tooth. "You're stronger than I am… I'll just… I'll help."

He nodded weakly, and Max watched him search for the tooth with the pliers this time. Once he had it, he started to yank, and she saw the agony in his eyes. He seemed to be trying to keep quiet, but she could only imagine how overwhelming it was to pull out your own tooth with no anesthetic.

She crooked her arm around his elbow and started to pull, using all of her dwindling strength to help. For everything that she put in, she wasn't sure how much she actually helped. It took them both twenty minutes to get the damn thing out, and when the last tendril ripped from his gum, Max practically fell to the side as Loki hurled all of it over the cash desk and out of sight with a shout. He then doubled over again, blood spilling from his parted lips.

"Thank you."

She propped herself up on her elbows and nodded. "Yeah, sure."

He spat a mouthful of blood on the floor, coughing a little in the process, and then nodded toward her feet. "You're bleeding."

"I know," she said. "So are you."

They stared at one another for a moment, and she wondered who looked more exhausted. Swallowing thickly, she pushed herself up and staggered through the store in an effort to find a first aid kit. The back office was open, but the only medical supplies she found were a few small bandages, and they weren't going to do her any good. She cleaned up the bleeding in an employee bathroom, and in the end, she grabbed a roll of duct tape from the owner's desk and started to peel off a few strips.

It definitely hurt to put duct tape over a cut, but at least it would keep the dirt out. She wrapped both feet thoroughly, glancing up when she heard Loki rummaging around the store just outside of the office door. It was a small room, similar to Glenn's office, and Max wondered if this guy was as paranoid as her boss was: a hidden gun somewhere would have been a nice find.

"Nothing here is a suitable weapon," Loki announced, appearing in the doorway so suddenly that she jumped. He glanced down at her feet, which were now wrapped in grey tape. "What are you doing?"

"I don't have shoes or socks," she told him, "and I can't just walk around with bloody feet. This will be fine until I can find something to wear."

"Will it?"

"How's your mouth?" She noticed that he had cleaned the blood away, but his right cheek was a little swollen. He touched it tenderly.

"Painful," he admitted, "but I have felt worse. It will be fine soon… Healed by tomorrow, I believe."

"I wish I could heal that quickly." She finished wrapping her left foot and set the duct tape down on the desk beside her. "You know, you should take that cape off."

"Why?"

"It's like a giant beacon to let everyone know you're you," she said, nodding toward the garment. "No one wears capes here."

"Hmm." He reached back and tore the fabric loose, tossing it aside. The clothes he wore beneath were simple and black with a few metallic details. She studied the outfit brazenly: he looked like he should be in a movie.

"I don't think we should stay here," she said after the silence dragged on for too long. "There's nothing to eat and, like you said, no weapons."

"I agree." He extended his hand to her. "Come along."

Max would have preferred to stay seated, but she was soon on her feet with her hand in his. They didn't link fingers, not like they used to, but she gripped him for support. Her feet were sore, and the duct tape tugged at all the wrong places, but she would rather have that than nothing at all.

"So where are we going?" she asked as they walked by a bathroom display.

"We'll hide in Stark's tower."

Max looked up at him sharply.

"That building has been empty ever since I moved here," she told him. "Tony Stark doesn't live in Manhattan anymore."

"Where is he?"

"Nobody knows, really," Max said with a shrug. "It's all over the gossip columns… No one has seen him for a long time."

She hadn't received a single cent from Tony Stark for almost a year now—not that she was complaining, but his continued financial support definitely would have made her bank account a little less depressing. Loki was quiet as he stewed over her news, but he carried on toward the broken door all the same.

"We will go to the tower nonetheless," he said decidedly, kicking the broken bits of Plexiglas out of her path. "I suspect that it is the safest place in the city."

"It's across town," she argued, stepping behind him as they passed through the narrow door, hands still clasped. "It's all the way across town _and_ it's got ridiculous security." According to the papers, anyway.

"That won't be a problem."

"Loki." She groaned softly and rolled her eyes. "We shouldn't go there."

"This is not a discussion, Max." Her eyes narrowed a little. "That is where we are going."

"_We_ don't have to go anywhere, you know…"

He stopped and looked back at her, frowning, but before she could say anything else, a lone voice shouted at them. Lo and behold, dozens of uniformed men were on the other side of the lush traffic divider—Max could see their faces through the bushes and trees.

"How many are there?" she asked as Loki's head turned in both directions, perhaps trying to decide which way to run. "In total?"

"Too many."

He opted to go left, and Max tried her best once again to keep up with his long strides. They raced passed brown brick buildings, iron gates, metal newspaper stands, and forgotten garbage cans. There were empty cars scattered everywhere on the streets, but still she saw no people—no one except for the uniformed horde chasing after them.

Then something caught her eye.

"Wait!"

She stopped abruptly, but Loki seemed not to realize and the sheer force behind his momentum actually popped her shoulder out of its socket. Max shrieked in pain as Loki whirled back, and she ripped her hand from his to clutch her shoulder. The pain was stronger than anything she had experienced over the last two days, but before the first few tears could reach her chin, Loki hauled her aside and popped the limb back into place—which was almost equally painful.

"What?" he snarled, shaking her as she wiped the tears away. "What is so important?"

"The subway," she whimpered, pointing down the narrow avenue to a staircase. "We can go underground… It'll be harder for them to keep up with us in the tunnels."

He was hesitant—unwilling, even—but the soldiers were too close for any other ideas. They could keep running, but Max knew she couldn't go much farther without a more substantial rest. So, he took her hand again and practically dragged her to the stairwell, and they descended into the brightly lit underground together.

She prayed they wouldn't find more soldiers belowground than aboveground.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Hello darlings! I was so thrilled that people were pleased with Loki and Max's reunion! I wanted there to be chemistry, but discomfort on both sides, and I think I accomplished that. I've got some more Max POV chapters lined up, but I'm eager to do a Loki one soon so I can get his perspective on everything out there too. **

**Now, you know me—I do try for realism. I've been to Manhattan once a few years ago, but that's not enough for me to make it 10000% accurate. I'm using Google Maps and whatnot for street descriptions and locations, and while I'm mentioning streets that are recognizable, I'm trying not to be too accurate with that. If I did give exact locations, I feel like I'd get something wrong that someone would point out. Native Manhattanites, I'm more than willing to take some advice on the subway system. I was too chicken-shit to go from the airport to the downtown area to meet my friend when I went, so whatever you have to offer is appreciated. Not that I've never been in a subway before, I just haven't been in one in NYC. **

**I cabbed from the airport. I regret it. Anyway. **

**Oh, and I've always been under the impression that Loki's magical clones were completely not solid. At all. So sometimes I've seen smutty fics where there's two Lokis and a woman, and I just... Maybe I'm totally wrong, but that's how I interpreted things. **

**People asked about Pepper's fate, and while I thought I was fairly clear on things, I guess I wasn't. I will spell it out—black and white—later in the story, but I dropped (and will drop) some clues here and there about what's happening with the Avengers and Pepper etc. We're learning as Max is, so things are a little murky right now. **

**Just like trying to figure out how much Nolan-angst to give Max right now, I'm still debating how much "Max's body hurts like hell" to put into description places. She's not a superhero. She's barely in shape. All of her energy is coming from the need to survive right now, so yeah… There's that. **

**I'm going to update my other Loki story before I do another update for this one, but I'll try to get working on it next week sometime. MUCH LOVE, DARLINGS! **


	6. Run where lights can't chase us

**A big thank you and shout out to **_**elleflies**_** for the extensive information about the Manhattan subway lines! Onward!**

* * *

The stairwell down to the subway terminal absolutely reeked of urine and stale cigarette smoke. As Loki dragged her down, Max's skin prickled at the strange sense of familiarity: the city may be going to hell, but at least the underground hadn't changed. Her taped feet had almost no traction, but she managed to keep herself upright with Loki in front of her. When they reached the bottom of the stairs—complete with a pile of congealed fast food wrappers in the corner—and carried on, unwilling to stop, Max's ears perked when she heard heavy footsteps and voices trailing after them.

"Keep going straight," she ordered as they hurried into the brightly lit corridor, glancing over her shoulder at the shadows encroaching on the bottom of the stairwell. "We can lose them down here."

"If we are so lucky," Loki said tightly, which made her glare. Her hand was starting to tingle, numbing under his grip, but she knew that even if she wanted to pull free, it would have been stupid to do so: he was the only thing keeping her going. Her legs were jelly and she couldn't even feel her feet anymore—though she was sure if she thought about them, she'd feel the pain.

They raced down the hallway together—by various print advertisements and white-washed walls, garbage cans and discarded bags. She couldn't begin to image what happened down here when the invaders struck: the subway took in hundreds of commuters every hour. Where were they all now? Were they still in the tunnels? Did they escape? Were they captured? Max wanted to hold Loki's hand, to grip it, to worry in it, but he held her wrist as she trailed behind him—and soldiers trailed behind her.

She shrieked when they were shot at again. The bullet made a sizeable hole in a wall at her right, and Loki picked up the pace. When they came to a fork in the hall—each off-shoot leading to different trains—Max insisted he go left. She wasn't sure why, but she simply knew the station to the right was always busier, and even on a good day she tended to avoid it.

The corridor fanned out, one light flickering at the very end, and Loki let go of her long enough to leap over a turnstile. He then whirled back and hauled her over too—definitely not as gently as her battered body deserved. At the sound of pursuers, they carried on without another word, side-by-side on their descent down the final grimy staircase that led to the subway platform. The uniformed soldiers seemed to catch up during the time that Loki took to lift Max over the row of turnstiles, and she started to panic halfway down the stairs. However, as soon as Loki's boot touched the station's southbound platform, gunfire erupted from all around them—no longer solely from behind.

Max screamed. She couldn't help it—she ducked down, arm over her head, and screamed as bullets ricocheted off the railings and columns and nearby garbage bin. Loki dragged her behind him immediately and backed them up until they could cower next to the staircase, using a metal bin for cover. The shots continued once they were gone, and Max's teary eyes flickered up to the stairwell: soldiers were shooting back, and a chorus of new voices erupted from the train tracks. She wanted to look. She wanted to put faces to the new shooters.

Instead, she shut her eyes and cowered behind Loki, one arm thrown over her head while the other hand gripped his shirt—partially because she was terrified, but mostly to keep him from leaving.

The railing above her rattled when something solid slammed against it. Max peeked up. A soldier slumped down, his jaw completely blasted away as black blood poured down the wall beside her.

"Oh—"

Loki rotated back and clamped a hand down over her mouth, his eyes narrowed. Max nodded, pressing herself into the wall while clutching his wrist. They managed to maintain eye contact until the shooting stopped; his gaze was oddly reassuring in the fact that he didn't look as upset by the violence as someone else might. Actually, he almost appeared calm.

The air was still—as it always was—when the shooting ended. Loki removed his hand from her mouth and then placed a finger to his lips. She nodded again, listening to the reverberation in the air: it lingered long after the bullets stopped flying. Although she couldn't see what happened, she could no longer hear their pursuers—no more boots or shouts in foreign languages. Instead, she heard the everyday chatter of an average New Yorker: gruff, slightly accented, and human.

"We should see if they can help us," she whispered. Loki was busy listening, half-turned from her with his finger up between them. "They're people—"

"They shot at us," he said in return, shooting her a skeptical look. "Don't say a word."

"Loki—"

"Not a word," he snapped softly, each syllable overly pronounced as he glared at her.

"Okay, okay…" She stilled when she heard a pair of shoes treading toward them. Loki's eyes darted across the platform, perhaps looking for an exit strategy, but that was foiled when a man stepped around the garbage can with a handgun pointed at her face.

Max flinched as she stared at the barrel, her hands up, and then glanced at the new aggressor. Tall, thin, a gash by his temple, dirt on his hands. He must have been around her age, though the painfully tight jeans left some room for debate there.

"We're not them," Max babbled as the man took a breath. "We're people."

"Get up," he ordered coolly, eyes traveling over both of them. He gestured for her to get moving with his gun, and Loki carefully helped her to her feet. A second shooter jogged over once she was steady, and the first grabbed her by the arm and pushed her along. She stumbled a little, her legs stiff and weary, but she managed to stay upright. Although she wanted to check back with Loki, she didn't dare look over her shoulder at the guy who now had a gun on her back.

There were about nine of them in total. As Max walked toward the edge of the platform, she saw three standing on the tracks, reloading their weapons and discarding used magazine clips. There were a few by the wide staircase, pilfering whatever they could from the dead soldiers. The stairs themselves were covered in black blood; the creatures had been outnumbered and defeated, which meant it was possible.

"We're not with them," she insisted shakily, pointing a sore arm at the fallen enemy. "We're people—"

"Max, enough." Loki's voice was crisp and clear and cut across the distance between them so sharply that it made her cheeks darken. The men were looking at her now—looking at her and him and making assumptions and mental calculations.

"Well, they look like people too, don't they?" The shooter behind Loki spoke up, swinging his gun in her direction. "How do we prove you're not?"

"Make her bleed." The suggestion came from the tracks, and Max's expression dropped. "If she bleeds red, she's like us."

"No, no," she cried, shooting a wide-eyed look at Loki before stepping away from the nearest stranger. "Look, I'm already bleeding…"

She held up a foot for everyone to see: the duct tape may have kept the wounds contained, but she could feel the red seeping through with every step she took. Each member of the small gang took a moment to study her foot—one even had the audacity to rotate her toward better lighting. When they appeared satisfied, she dropped it and glanced at Loki, whose eyes wandered from man to man slowly. They all appeared to be the same age, dressed similarly, and each carried a different handgun. If she wasn't so panicked, she was sure she could identify each weapon with a little time.

"And this guy?"

"He's not one of them," she offered as the attention shifted toward Loki. He raised a dark eyebrow passively when the man nearest to him raised his weapon. The guy stared at him for a moment, and under Loki's gaze he slowly lowered his arm, his gun resting by his side. She swallowed thickly as silence settled over the group; each person seemed to wonder what they ought to do next. Max wanted to befriend them, to make allies.

"We've been running from them all day," she insisted, fudging the timeline a little. "It's so good to see actual _people_ here—"

"Have you got anything on you?"

Max's eyebrows shot up as the man to her immediate right cut her off, his head cocked to the side.

"We don't have any weapons," she told him, shaking her head. "We just—"

"No, like money and stuff."

Her jaw dropped and Loki scoffed noisily at the question.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She couldn't hold back her anger—not now. "What? Are you trying to rob us or something? Are you _kidding_ me?!"

"Hey, you do whatever you can—"

"We're _people_ and they aren't!" She was almost shrieking now, and she noticed some of the guys exchange looks. "We should be banding together and not fucking trying to rob each other in the—"

The butt of his gun slammed against her jaw before she could finish her rant, and she doubled over, holding her mouth in agony. That was it—that was all her body could take. Max was surprised she didn't collapse right then and there.

She straightened up the best she could, eyes watering and lips trembling, and she flinched back when her attacker stepped toward her again. Everything that happened afterward was a blur, but Max forced herself to watch. Loki disarmed the nearest shooter, grabbing his gun and slamming it so soundly against his skull that the guy went down. As Max's attacker reeled back, his friends raising their guns, Loki was on him. He pushed the gun out of his face, his teeth gritted and eyes wild, and held the man by his wrist and head, forcing him back against the concrete pillar on Max's left.

And then someone shot him. The bullet landed squarely on his shoulder, which made her cry his name in shock. The man in his grasp stopped struggling and his fellow vultures stopped circling—everyone simply stared at Loki, who appeared completely unaffected by the shot. He looked down at his shoulder, and then reached into his shirt—his spare hand still pressing the man's face into the green column. He then retrieved a flattened bullet, which had no blood on it, and tossed it aside. Max's eyes followed it as it bounced twice on the scuffed floor: it looked like it had a run-in with a wall.

"If anyone shoots me again," Loki said softly, his voice the only sound in the abandoned station, "or her, I will slaughter each and every one of you in the worst way imaginable." He paused, turning slowly to look at the man pressed against the pillar. "And I have a very _vivid_ imagination."

Max trembled as she watched a few of the men slowly lower their weapons, though two still kept their guns fixed on Loki.

"Loki," she whispered. Her lower lip was starting to swell a little—she could feel it when she talked. "Let's go."

Her hope for a human coalition in the bowels of the city dissipated quickly, and she just wanted to get out of there before anything else happened. It wasn't that she doubted his ability to handle the guys, but she didn't want to fight anymore. She didn't want to run. She walked to walk away peacefully and find somewhere to hide.

Loki looked over at her, the crazy still in his eyes, and then released the man. However, before her attacker could get too far, Loki grabbed his arm again and snapped it in half, the bones in his forearm protruding out beneath his sweater. He screamed as Loki dropped him on the ground, and his friends seemed unsure of whether they ought to retaliate or not.

No one moved. Loki crouched down and retrieved the gun from the weeping man and then shoved it into Max's hands as he marched by. She turned quickly and scuttled after him, the cool metal bringing some feeling back to her hands. It took an eternity to get to the far end of the platform, but once they were there, Loki hopped down onto the tracks and turned back to her, arms extended.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, the gun now resting in her massive pants pocket, and let him lift her down onto the track.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded, unable to say much more. She could hear the voices of the men they left behind across the platform grow louder with each passing minute, and she gestured toward the ominous black tunnel beside them.

In they went, Loki leading the way and Max struggling to keep up. Her eyes took some time to adjust to the darkness, and she cringed at every foreign noise that clearly did not come from her or Loki. For the most part, she kept her stare fixed on his back, using him as a guide through the subway tunnel. Her nerves were shot. Her feet were thumb. The handgun thumped against her leg with every step she took, and eventually she simply couldn't walk anymore. Even with the light of the next station looming in the distance, Max stopped.

She realized, as she leaned against the grimy wall, that she was starting to hyperventilate.

"Max?"

Fat, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks, and she doubled over in some sad attempt to steady her breathing.

"I'm okay," she managed. He returned to her side and placed a large hand on her back, rubbing it gently. "I'm f-fine."

"We can't stop," he murmured as she stood up, her breathing still uneven and ragged. She ran her fingers under her eyes and across her cheeks, sniffling noisily.

"I know." Her feet were throbbing now, no longer numb to the pain, and she licked her lips. "I can't… I can't walk anymore. My feet are…"

She stopped talking when she felt his hands on her face, smoothing over the skin and into her hair. He was very close, and in the dark she could see his eyes scrutinizing her—maybe checking her other injuries.

"I should have realized."

"It's okay." She took a few more calming breaths, tentatively touching his wrists with her fingertips—warm. "I thought I could go on some more, but I can't."

She definitely didn't want to sit there for much longer, but the thought of putting on foot in front of the other until they reached the next station seemed exhausting. Besides, she was sure they wouldn't be able to stop at the next station. No, they needed to get as far from this place as possible, and it would be easy to lose any pursuers in the vast subway system.

"I will carry you," he decided, dropping his hands and turning. "Climb on my back."

As Max grappled with his shoulders, she realized Loki faced a similar situation that she had been in earlier. Max was a burden now, and if he wanted to, he could leave her there to get by alone. He could turn and walk away—he'd probably get much further without her slowing him down.

Still, she wrapped her stiff limbs around him, his hands holding her up by her knees, and he set out with her on his back. She seemed to be no trouble to him: his steps were smooth and normal, as if she were just a backpack full of nothing. At first, she kept her back straight and her head away from his, but as he stopped at the edge of the tunnel, she ducked down and tightened her grasp around his neck. His hair was longer than she remembered, though its scent was familiar.

She locked her feet together in front of him, freeing his hands temporarily. They both peered around the wall, surveying the vacant station first before stepping back into the light. The first few steps were hesitant and slow, but it seemed that when Loki was sure they were alone, his pace increased dramatically. Like before, it took an age to cross between the tunnel entrances, and Max looked over her shoulder whenever she thought she heard something. However, they passed into darkness undisturbed, and Max finally felt like she could breathe again.

His hands returned to her legs, giving her some reprieve as he held her up.

"The last time I got a piggyback from you," she started wearily, her head resting against his, "was after Garret's party when some asshole drugged me."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating in her ear. "No, I seem to recall another time."

"Oh?"

"You stepped out of the car and into a puddle one night," he told her, readjusting his grip briefly as she locked her arms in place. "I was gallant enough to help you then."

She went through her memories, trying to hark back to such an occasion, and then gave a breathy laugh when she remembered: it was almost Thanksgiving.

"Your memory is awesome," she murmured.

"One of my many attributes."

"Along with being bulletproof, huh?" Her eyes flickered down to his shoulder, and even though she couldn't see the entry wound in the darkness, she knew it was there.

"I wouldn't say I am completely impenetrable," he mused, "but my skin is much thicker than that of a human… A single shot will bruise the skin for some time, but it will be gone tomorrow."

"How nice for you." She didn't want to fathom at how long it would take for her body to recover from the events of the last few days. "Want to share some of that with me?"

"I would if I could."

"Mmm."

Max slipped into daydreams in the silence that followed, imagining what it would be like to be almost indestructible. It must be nice.

They passed through three platforms in a similar manner: pause at the entrance, search for the enemy, make a run across the open space and head for the dark. Max had a tough time keeping her eyes open after a while, and Loki jostled her awake whenever she started to slip down his back. They came to one station and opted to run across it to the other line, which led them down further beneath Manhattan. At that point, Max had lost track of where they were, but they had yet to run into other people.

Occasionally, they heard voices wafting through vents and air ducts, but Loki merely jogged until the voices stopped.

An hour or so into their walk, Max and Loki stumbled across their first train. It was stopped in the middle of the tunnel, all its lights still on. That managed to wake her up a little, and she straightened as Loki climbed on to the back car.

"Breathe through your mouth."

"Why?"

She frowned as she peered through the door's window, and then swallowed thickly. Bodies were everywhere. With the roving gang of idiots they first met, she wasn't sure who was to blame for all the blood, but she placed a hand over her nose as Loki forcefully pushed the door in and stepped inside. It was cooler in the car than in the tunnel, as the air still seemed to be chugging along.

The stench of body odour and urine was rampant in every single car they walked through, and Loki seemed equally put off by the smell. He moved quickly, stepping over and around passengers as Max kept a wary eye out for any that might move.

Thankfully, nobody did.

"We should be more concerned about the cameras," she noted when she spotted one in the top corner of a car near the front. She hadn't even considered them before, and neither of them knew who might be watching.

"Yes."

The door on the front car was a little trickier to get open, and Loki needed to set Max down in order to get it pried apart. However, he was soon successful, and she climbed up on his back to carry on. The air certainly felt staler and warmer outside the car, but the darkness was a nice change from car after car of corpses.

They continued on a downward march, descending deeper and deeper into the subway system, until the ground finally leveled out at the next station. After going through the usual routine, Loki started out into the terminal, but Max nudged him with her legs.

"Vending machines…"

"Max, we cannot stop for pointless—"

"Just quickly?" She tried to add a bit of whine to her tone. "I'm really hungry."

He paused with a huff, and then set her down on the yellow line that marked the unsafe standing area on the platform. He then climbed up and helped her to her feet, and she waddled toward the brightly lit vending machines with relish. All she needed was a little something to take her light-headedness away. Thankfully, each machine was full, and she was able to reach her arm through the bottom slot to grab a few of the candies on the bottom row. Loki ended up smashing the glass to the second machine for her, which made it easier to stuff her pockets with the things she wanted.

Halfway through a Snickers bar, Max paused when she heard something coming from the nearby stairwell. Loki seemed to hear it too, and without another word she hopped up on his back and he hurried toward the tunnel.

She tossed the empty wrapper on the ground—what was one more piece of garbage down here anyway?—and then retrieved a small bag of chips from her pocket. Although she couldn't see his face, she figured he was mildly annoyed with all the rustling around his head, and she offered him a chip. Her hand hovered by his mouth for a moment, and when he took it, his lips grazed her fingers, leaving one a little wet.

Her stomach knotted in unexpected excitement.

Neither said anything, and Max continued to eat as if nothing had happened. However, as the number of chips whittled down in quantity, she offered him two more. Her stomach did the pleasurable clench every time.

Max tossed the bag away too, taking a deep breath and wrapping her arms around him again. No more feeding—not here, not now.

Another hour crawled by, and at that point she was falling asleep on his back shamelessly. He finally stopped and set her down.

"We should rest," he told her. Max wasn't about to argue with that—not one bit. With her eyes accustomed to the dark, she watched him step up onto a cement block and yank a metal grate off the wall. Loki threw it aside, and then beckoned for her to join him.

"What's this?"

"You can sleep in here," he told her. She wrinkled her nose as she stared up at the hole in the wall. "It appears to be nothing more than a vent."

"Yeah, well, don't trust what you see in the subway," she muttered, her feet aching now that she was back on them. "Why can't we just find a bathroom somewhere?"

"I want to stay out of the light," he said, grasping her around the waist suddenly and hoisting her up. "You need to sleep, but I want to look around some more. I'm putting you here for safekeeping."

"Oh." She placed her arms into the hole and tried to pull herself up, but really, Loki did most of the work for her. It was wide enough for her to turn around in once she was inside, though it was damp and smelled awful. "You're not going to leave me here, are you?"

There was a long pause below, and Max poked her head out. He was staring down in the direction from which they came, and when she cleared her throat, he glanced up at her.

"No, I'm not going to leave you here," he assured her, reaching up and placing a hand to her cheek.

"Okay," she said slowly, nodding a few times when she felt his thumb stroke her skin. "Don't go too far."

"I won't."

That was a lie, but she was too tired to argue with him about it. She inched back a little, her body tensing for the sudden drop off in the musty air shaft. However, it seemed that she could stretch out fully and still be supported. She gagged when her bare toe touched something wet.

Suddenly, the metal grating was being put back in place; Max panicked.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, pushing on the cage so that he couldn't lock it in.

"Keeping you safe should someone else wander this way in my absence," he snapped as she poked her head out again.

"No, no, we're not putting that back on." Max pointed at the offending metal and glared. "No, that stays off."

"Max—"

"What if I need to get out?"

"Why would you possibly need to do that?"

"It's _not_ going on."

He sighed, the sound long and exasperated, and then dropped the grate somewhere off to the side. "Fine."

"Good," she muttered.

"Try to sleep," he told her as she settled down onto her side, the candies and snacks and gun in her pocket digging into her leg. "I cannot be sure when you will get another opportunity to do so."

"Okay." She exhaled deeply, and then buried her face in her blouse. It might have stunk of sweat, but it was better to smell _her_ body odour than whatever was stinking up the air vent. Sleep came quickly, though she jumped out of it several times when her subconscious thought it heard something. However, after the initial few times, she finally fell into a lasting slumber, completely dead to the world.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Okay, so you have literally **_**no idea**_** how hard it was for me to not have Loki and Max jump each other's bones with the chip feeding scene. Like. All I wanted to do was to have them get down and dirty, but I showed authorly restraint. RESTRAINT. Now is not the time or place! But I do think it's getting easier for both of them to fall back into an old routine because it's comfortable and safe and reminds them of nicer times. Nobody ever wants to actually deal with anything—nothing's changed, apparently. **

**So I was working on both this plot and the sequel's plot, and I officially have a title for the sequel: **_**The Long Winter**_**. Not sure if I've mentioned it before… Should I be talking about sequels so early in the story? WHY NOT, AM I RIGHT? **

**I actually don't have much to talk about in this AN—not sure if that's a good or bad thing. Like I said, elleflies was super helpful in explaining the ridiculousness of the NYC subway system, and I'm still trying to keep up with as much realism as I can. **

**As much as is allowed in fanfiction, anyway. **

**I've also got a lot of song lyrics in my titles... Generally that happens when a particular song was useful in inspiring scenes and whatnot. Just like TSiF, I think I will make a youtube playlist with all the songs that influenced me. Sometime. Soon, hopefully. **

**I think I'll start the next chapter right away. I work a lot next week, but mostly just mornings, so hopefully I can get some stuff done! **

**Much love to all my lurkers and reviewers alike! LOVE! **


	7. Like a Streak of Light

When Max snapped back to consciousness, she was vaguely aware that something was touching her. Curled up on her side, she struggled to gauge what was real and what was still a part of her unfocused dreams, but she knew that there was something in the air duct with her. It tickled a little, like someone running their fingers over her back, and she immediately thought of Loki. However, as the fog cleared and she remembered where she was, she became acutely aware that it could _not_ be Loki. No person could fit comfortably in the air duct with her.

Fur brushed across her hand. Something was tugging on her pants, on the tape wrapped around her feet. Horrified, her eyes shot open, and in the darkness she saw familiar shapes hopping about.

Rats. Rats moving too quickly for her to count, perhaps drawn by the smell of sweet candy and half-eaten chips and bloody feet. One crawled up her back to her side, snuffing along her arms, and in that moment she screamed like she had never screamed before. She flailed, continuing to shriek at the unwelcome guests, and knocked her head on the top of the air duct as she flew upward.

The creatures seemed distressed by the sound, but one had the audacity to continue eating through the hole in her pants—another was gnawing at her duct tape. Her heart pounded so soundly in her chest that she thought it might break through, and Max crawled backward—still shrieking and groaning and hyperventilating—so quickly that she toppled off the edge of the air duct before she had a chance to brace herself.

Down she fell, landing hard on the gravelly earth below, and she didn't care how much fucking noise she made. Pain. Pain and horror and more pain. Most of the rats stayed up in the duct, but the few that clung along for the ride were violently swiped away as she bounced back and forth between each foot.

"Max?!"

Loki's voice echoed through the tunnel shortly after, and although she could hear him jogging up from behind, she couldn't focus on him. Instead, she stumbled away, across the tracks so that she wasn't near the air duct anymore, and propped herself up on the wall as she started to dry heave.

If there had actually been anything worthwhile in her stomach, she probably would have vomited it right back up.

"What happened?"

His hands were soothing on her back last time, but now they made her jump—this was going to do some emotional damage. Stepping away, she leaned back against the wall and ran her hands through her hair.

"I woke up and there… there were rats… eating… me," she managed. That wasn't entirely true. She couldn't feel any oozing wounds—they were probably more interested in the food in her pockets.

"What?"

"Rats," she repeated shakily. "There were rats all over me, and they were biting the tape and the food and one crawled up on my arm…"

She doubled over when she gagged again, thinking that _this_ would be the time when she spat out a load of stomach juices. Nothing came, and she coughed through her disgust and mortification the best she could.

"Rats?" He breathed a lengthy sigh. "Max, are you serious?"

"No, I'm just doing this for kicks," she groaned, hands on her knees and head bowed as she tried to take a few calming breaths. However, when she shifted, the bottom of her pants brushed against her foot, which made her jump again.

"You really need to control yourself," he told her, each word sounding less and less impressed with her as they came in punctuated syllables. "Do you know how much noise you were making?"

"Rats!" She straightened up to push against his arm, which did nothing. Her voice bounced off the walls and down the tunnel, but she didn't care. "There were _rats_ all over me!"

"Yes, yes," he hissed, grabbing her by the shoulders—with surprisingly accurate aim in the darkness—and giving her a light shake. The movement hurt the shoulder she previously dislocated, and Max squirmed out of his grasp. "I'm sure it was very…" He seemed to fumble over the wording, "jarring to wake up in that situation—"

"Don't patronize me!" she shouted, pointing in the vague direction of the air duct. "That was horrifying!"

He stared at her for a moment, the whites of his eyes noticeable in the dark, and then turned and marched away from her. Max leaned back again, her body trembling as the adrenaline started to fade. She then reached into her pocket—what was left of it—and pulled out the remaining bits and pieces of vending machine candy. There were bound to be more vending machines along the line, and she wasn't about to munch on something that a rat got to first.

Loki had come to a stop on the tracks, his outline long and lean and tall against the dull yellow lighting at the end of the tunnel. He seemed to move quite stiffly beforehand, and Max licked her lips as she watched him, waiting for him to carry on without her. He didn't need to stay.

She bet he regretted carrying her along.

"We can't linger here." His voice was calm when he finally spoke again, and Max perked up at the sound. "You've alerted anyone nearby to our presence."

She pursed her lips, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. "Sorry."

"No matter," he turned and started back toward her. "I believe I have found a line that will bring us close to Stark's tower. It will require a great deal of walking—"

"Great."

"But," he continued, the calm veneer wavering a little, "it may get us there by tomorrow evening."

She didn't want to go to Stark Tower. While the man's enterprise kept the building looking spritely, almost anyone who walked by it knew there was nothing happening on the insides: lights were on but no one was ever, ever home. However, she wasn't exactly in a position to argue with him, especially over something like the direction of their forced march.

"Okay." It was all she could think to say now that her body was starting to collapse in on itself. All of yesterday's (Today's? She wasn't sure how long she had slept.) aches seeped back into her muscles and joints and bones, almost to the point where standing there was tiring.

"How are your feet?"

She glanced down at them, and despite the fact that she couldn't see them, she wiggled her toes all the same. The soles of her feet were aching and they burned when she put too much pressure on them.

"About the same."

"Up you go, then."

He crouched down for her to clamber up onto his back, and once she had her legs wrapped around him, she realized that she needed a bathroom.

"We need to take a quick pit stop before we go too far," she insisted as he marched toward the end of the tunnel. He didn't stop when they crossed over into the illuminated station, and she assumed it was because he had already assessed the area.

"No stops, Max."

"No, this is pretty necessary," she told him, reaching out to grab the nearby platform—a sad attempt to slow him down.

"Max—"

"I just need to use the bathroom, and then we can keep going."

He stopped abruptly, which worsened the pressure on her bladder. "Can't you just… hold it?"

"What?" She scoffed noisily in his ear, which made him flinch away. It was difficult to get the full effect of his expression, but he was definitely displeased with her again. "No, I can't hold it."

"Well, you'll have to."

"Look, we can take five minutes to find a bathroom, or I can just go right now," she told him, feeling downright disgusted with herself that she needed to make this kind of ultimatum. "It's your choice."

Neither of them mentioned that he could just set her down and leave her there. However, his irritated, somewhat defeated, sigh indicated that it wasn't a consideration—yet.

"Fine," he muttered, setting her on the platform and hopping up. "I found one on the level above, but we must be quick."

"Yeah, obviously."

Loki shot her a look as he helped her to her feet, and she smiled weakly in return. Once she was back on his back, Loki darted across the platform toward a staircase, and then turned left at the top. If she was correct about where she assumed they were, they were about three levels below the main street. Sure enough, there was a small bathroom on the next floor that suited Max just fine. The corridor was empty as they crept along, and Loki's feet barely made a sound. He paused once when a light bulb burnt out on its own, but otherwise they ran into no other disturbances. Max suspected that if they were closer to the surface, there would have been a greater chance of running into other people.

Loki waited outside at her insistence, not wanting to be carried straight in to the toilet. Her feet disagreed with the decision, but the cool tile was soothing on her blistered and frayed toes.

After relieving herself, Max spent a couple of minutes at the sink. She rubbed down her whole body with water, pink hand soap, and some paper towels, stripping out of her pants and blouse in order to get everywhere. Time was of the essence, she knew, but she wasn't sure when she would get an opportunity like this again. The bathroom itself wasn't especially clean, but there were no rats or gravel or dirt anywhere to be seen, and that was all that mattered.

She was a mess. Her hair was starting to look stringy and greasy, and after a few failed attempts to knot it around itself, she decided to let it continue to hang loose. Her eyes were a little bloodshot and her lips were peeling—dehydrated. There was a bruise where she had been hit with the gun yesterday (today?) on her lower cheek and chin, and it was tender to touch. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only bruise. Her arms were littered with small marks, including the outline of Loki's fingers around her wrist.

In a panic, Max checked for signs that the rats were in fact not eating her. Aside from the holes in her pockets and some missing tape, she didn't appear to have been bitten where it mattered. Still, she shivered at the memory, and then quickly redressed. Leaning against the countertop, Max lifted a foot to inspect. The tape seemed to be holding well enough, but when she tried to unwind it, the cuts beneath stung so horribly that her eyes watered.

"Fuck," she muttered, smoothing the tape back down and sighing. It was going to be a nightmare getting it all off.

"Max?" She heard Loki tapping on the door. "Let's go."

She didn't want to move. It took every ounce of strength in her to push her body away from the sink, dragging her sore feet across the tile until she reached the door. She didn't have the fight in her today. Everything felt heavy now that she was fully awake. Her stomach gurgled angrily, but she couldn't think of anything worthwhile to satisfy it. When she stepped out into the hallway again, she immediately envied Loki: while he might have seemed tired, he looked perfectly fine—the image of perfect health and virility.

They said nothing as she climbed up onto his back, though her legs and thighs were not impressed with the idea of wrapping around his torso again. This must have been what riders felt like after a long day on a horse—or something equally tiring. She didn't mention the pain to Loki, however, for fear he would be insulted that she thought of him as her horse.

Before they descended down into the tunnels again, Loki carried her toward a row of brightly lit vending machines. Much to her pleasure, one was for drinks, and with her still on his back, Loki wrenched the cover off and she grabbed two bottles of water to rest in her pockets. They then stocked up on any of the sweet and salty treats that tickled their fancy.

"The ice cream will feel good on your gums," Max noted, one hand wrapped around his neck as the other shoved a bag of Skittles into her already over-packed pocket. The gun against her left leg took up too much room, but it was more important than food. "You should have some."

"My mouth is fine," he noted stiffly. However, before they left, she forced him to get her an ice cream bar, which she then fed to him as they marched back down to the subway platform. He seemed more inclined to eat it when she was offering it as a treat, though her stomach didn't do its excited somersaults when his lips touched her fingers today.

She didn't have the energy to get excited—it had all been wasted on screaming about rats.

Their march through the subway lines continued to be an isolated walk, though Loki stopped at every entrance to ensure that it remained as such. Once she had finished munching on a bag of pretzels, and felt a little sick, Max tossed the garbage away and wrapped both arms tightly around Loki's neck. When he made no noise of protest, she buried her face against his neck and hair, preferring the comfort his natural scent brought to keeping an eye on their situation.

She stayed like that for a long time, listening to his breathing and the painful silence of the rest of the tunnel, feeling his hands gripping her legs and his warm skin against hers. It was comforting, to be like this, and a small part of her had wished she could have slept next to him somewhere instead of alone in an air duct. After all, he certainly would have been nicer to wake up to.

"Max?"

Her eyes opened slowly when he whispered her name, and she blinked a few times, focusing in on the pale skin of his neck.

"Hmm?"

"Are you alright?"

He readjusted his grasp on her legs, jostling her a little.

"No." Her response was dull and monotone—she couldn't force the cheer today. Nolan was dead and the world had gone to alien hell, and there was nothing she could do about anything.

He turned his head slightly to the side, and Max pressed her forehead against his cheek, sighing a little. When he straightened out, she hugged him tighter and shut her eyes again, preferring it this way.

"How do you like living here?"

"Well, it's been pretty shitty the last couple of days," she mumbled against his neck, which made him chuckle. The sound was enough to make her smile, even if it was only fleetingly. "It's okay, I guess."

He was silent for a few moments afterward, and Max glanced up at him when she realized he was waiting for something more.

"I like living with Pat," she admitted, knowing perfectly well what he was doing. She gave him a small squeeze, unsure if he could feel it or not. "It's really busy here all the time, and I thought I'd hate it, but I like that I can get something to eat anywhere at any time of the day or night." She paused for a breath. "I mean, I also thought the people here would be rude assholes, and a lot of them are, but there are also a lot of people who just want to chat with you if you're waiting in line for something… It's surprising."

"Oh?"

He paused at the edge of the darkness, peering into the light, and once he started to move, Max continued in hushed tones.

"Garret and Tiffany moved with me," she told him. "They're…" Somewhere out there—fighting for their lives, hopefully.

She swallowed thickly.

"Are they married yet?"

"Yeah," she said weakly. "They had their ceremony last year and the reception was at the karaoke bar."

"Very sentimental."

"It was," she agreed, nodding as they slipped back into the darkness more. "It was nice."

"And your brother—"

"What was that?" Max didn't mean to cut him off. It wasn't that she wanted to talk about Nolan, but she could answer a few nonspecific questions if it meant Loki kept this little game up. However, she stopped him when she spotted something ahead of them: a flicker of light. It bounced off the walls. Round, weak, and soon joined by a second beam.

"Is that a…" Loki trailed off as Max's head whipped back, looking over her shoulder to find the source. There, at the beginning of the tunnel, were outlines of three men. She couldn't tell if they were in uniforms or normal clothing, but Loki certainly didn't wait around for her to find out. He took off along the track silently, and Max clung to him with the fear that one of those flashlights would reflect off her back in the meantime.

Unfortunately, as they neared the end of the tunnel, three more silhouettes awaited them at the other side, and Loki came to a swift halt when she gasped. He then backed up against the wall, pressing her to it as they watched. For a while, the outlines lingered on the edge of the tunnel, faint beams of light flashing into the darkness. However, soon the outlines disappeared and the beams became stronger, and she knew they couldn't stay hidden for long.

"They might be people," she murmured, her fingers digging in to his shoulder for support as she squinted into the black tunnel.

"Yes, because our fortunes were so blessed when we last saw… people," he muttered in return. Max frowned.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

He said nothing. Instead, Loki inched along the wall, one hand pressed against it, until they were beside a metal door.

"We'll need to make a slight detour, it seems."

"Loki—"

He rattled the handle, which didn't give in the slightest, and then took a step back and kicked the door. That managed to do something: the metal dented noisily, and voices reverberated off the walls around them. She held tight when the second kick knocked the door clean off its hinges; there were lights on them now. Loki darted inside, turning slightly to the side to glance back at the newcomers—who were noisily scurrying in their direction.

"Where are we going?"

"Do you think I have some mystical knowledge on the inner workings of this underground pit?" Loki snapped as he hurried down a narrow, damp, dark corridor. They came to a fork just as voices started to echo behind them, and Loki opted to go left. This time, Max had absolutely nothing to contribute to their escape: she could barely see, let alone register where they were.

Loki ran until he trampled over something that sounded like metal grating, and Max winced when he stopped abruptly and turned back to investigate.

"Let's not do anymore ducts," she said, squealing a little when he ducked down and wove his fingers through the dark slates. "Nope, no, let's see where the tunnel goes…"

He ignored her and unlatched her legs hurriedly, knocking her back onto the ground. Groaning, Max sat up as he wrenched what appeared to be a manhole covering of sorts up and off, and then jumped in.

"Loki!"

"Jump down, Max—"

"Have you lost your…" Her demand fell flat when she saw lights bobbing on the wall at the entrance to the corridor, and she swung her legs over the side and dropped down, trusting that he would catch her.

He did, and when he set Max down on the wet ground, she immediately realized where they were.

"The sewer?" she hissed, her eyes narrowing at his dark form. "We're not staying in here!"

"I like it far less than you do, I assure you," he fired back, "but I'll not go back to them. We'll find a way out."

"Ugh." The stench wasn't quite as overwhelming as she would have expected, but she could see strings of… something hanging from the roof of the cavern. Just as the subway air was dry and stale, the air here was thick and humid with moisture collecting on the walls. There was a thin stream of water running down the middle of the hallway.

"Come," he beckoned, crouching down in front of her. "We can't stay."

"I know, I know," she said as she clambered up for the umpteenth time. "I don't hear them anymore."

"Doesn't mean we can linger—"

"I _know_, Loki," she muttered. "I'm just saying."

He sighed again, long and drawn out, and his body was tense as he started forward. He was a little too tall to fit comfortably in the tunnel standing, and with Max on his back, he was forced to squat even lower. She felt guilty, naturally, but now that they were in the sewer, she was even less inclined to walk on her damaged feet.

The tunnel eventually grew, and soon enough he was able to stand comfortably. Unfortunately, that meant the waters ran deeper, and Loki stayed off to the side the best he could, slipping and sliding over the wet stone walkways. Although there was less of a chance of running into the enemy in the city's drainage system, Max would have taken the subway tunnels any day. The waterways were not only slippery, but they continued to vary in size, and there hadn't been any means of escape for almost an hour. Loki tried the best he could to navigate, and he handled the occasional hill or slope with more dignity that Max could have ever done.

Still, she could practically feel his frustration. His body was tense and stiff, no longer the pliable comfort it was earlier. He huffed and grumbled whenever they came to a tunnel that was too narrow to fit them both, and she could feel him grinding his teeth when they came back to a spot they had already passed.

Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness at last, but it wasn't as though there was much to see. A sewer was a sewer, no matter which one you were in. She felt claustrophobic in the small tunnels and overwhelmed in the large ones. Her feet dipped in the water occasionally, and Loki's pants were soaked from stumbling into deep drop-offs.

Eventually, the tunnel they had been wading through for ages finally emptied out into a great cavernous hall with a pool in the middle. There were countless other streams that fed into it and took from it, and Max squinted up when she realized there was light trickling in from the ceiling. She assumed they had crawled their way up to the surface.

Loki waded out into the pond, treading carefully to avoid any holes. Max, on the other hand, focused on something that caught her eye.

"What's that?"

She pointed toward a tunnel on the other side of the hall, which was filled with the sounds of running water at all speeds. Loki paused for a moment, perhaps searching for whatever she saw, and then marched toward it. While there were bits and pieces of gunk hanging from the ceilings of the tunnels, this stood out to Max because it appeared the gunk was in the middle of the hall, stretched inward in long, thick strings.

In fact, that was exactly what it was. As Loki approached the hall, Max saw four wires attached to the opening of the circular tunnel—two on each side—and they stretched inside as far as she could see like thin planks.

"What purpose do these serve?" Loki mused, reaching toward to touch them. He plucked one of the wires like a guitar string, and its sound resonated down the tunnel. Max shrugged.

"Nothing that I can see," she admitted, reaching out to touch them herself. Loki leaned forward to oblige her grasping fingers. The wire was cool and solid, and she didn't have the strength to make the ones she touched sing like Loki did.

"It must lead somewhere." Loki ducked down under the wire and staggered into the tunnel—Max winced when she scraped her back along one of the thick threads.

"Maybe to a trap?"

"It is not Pagurolid technology," he told her, his boots slipping on the wet floor as he walked along. The tunnel was high enough to permit him to stand, but the arched ceiling forced them both to duck their heads a little if they wanted to stay clear of the water running down the slight slope. "I have never seen it before, at the very least."

"Me neither."

He glanced over his shoulder at her and she shrugged.

"Stay alert," he told her. Max rolled her eyes.

"I _know_…"

He sighed.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**So, the rat scene was actually one of the first I pictured when I was planning this story. There were others, but this was pretty early in the developmental planning. It turned out precisely how I imagined it. Maybe Max overreacted, but think back to the previous story: remember the mouse in their apartment? How horrified she was? This was basically her nightmare. A living nightmare. On top of other nightmares. And hell, it would be my nightmare too, honestly. **

**I really enjoy the feedback I've been getting. It seems that people grasp what is happening with Max and Loki's relationship, and that's awesomepants. I wanted to show some more of the tension in this chapter, how they are both getting frustrated and tired and weighed down by everything, and they don't really have anyone to take it out on but each other. Like I've said before and some reviewers have noted: can't wait to write a Loki point of view chapter. From my plans, the next chapter will be focused on Max, but the following will be Loki. **

**The fact that he hasn't ditched her speaks volumes to me, but Loki seems loyal to the ones he truly cares for—Thor is a whole different can of worms, mind you. **

**Anyway, short notes tonight. I started my new job and it's early mornings now, and I'm exhausted. I hope to either work the next update by the end of this week or next week. **

**UNTIL THEN, MY DARLINGS! Ten points to whoever can take the title of this chapter and find the theme song it fits with! **


	8. Let me explain you a Thing

While the tunnel may have been long, Max was pleased that there was some sort of light source at last. It filtered in through random holes in the ceiling, and although there was a considerable distance to the street level above, Max could hear more of the outside world now than she had since they hopped onto the tracks. Loki's frustration with the sewer system seemed to have ebbed temporarily, and he was more focused on finding the endpoint to the cluster of heavy-duty wires running down the center of the circular corridor. He plucked a string every so often, pausing to listen to the sound the vibration made, and then carried on. Max heard nothing discernible about it, but she assumed he had godly hearing—or something to that effect.

She tightened her grip on him when he slipped, losing his footing over the increasingly slippery siding.

"Maybe we should go back?" she suggested as he straightened up, knocking her head against the ceiling. Wincing, she ducked down as much as she could. "I mean, we don't even know if this goes anywhere worthwhile… That place with all the other tunnels seemed better than this."

"We're getting somewhere," he muttered. "I cannot be sure where, but I feel as though this is the direction we ought to take."

"Right."

Max resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but once again reminded herself that she was in no position to question him about directions. After all, he had basically been carrying her for two days now—she couldn't complain about anything ever again.

Loki walked more carefully this time, a hand hovering over the nearest wire. It wasn't long before they reached a break in the monotonous scenery, and he paused as the tunnel spilled into a much larger circular area. The light from the world above didn't quite filter in as much as she would have liked, and the walls were coated in shadow. The wires continued across to the other side, where it appeared that the tunnel resumed, and Max could see dull beams of light trickling onto more wire. Between them and the other side was a dark pool of water, into which a stream trickled.

Max bit her lip as she peered forward. "That looks deep."

"Yes," Loki agreed, glancing up and curving his long fingers over the edge of the tunnel. "It appears far deeper than I would like to tread through."

She almost suggested turning back again, but Loki appeared to have another idea.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, squishing down against his back as he starting to climb onto the wires.

"This seems to be the most reasonable way to cross—"

"_No_," she snapped, gritting her teeth when he knocked her head again. "No, it doesn't!"

The wires groaned and dipped under their combined weight, and Max locked her limbs around him anxiously until he found his balance.

"There," he chuckled, inching forward with painful slowness. "No sudden movements and I believe we shall be just fine."

"I'd just like to say upfront that I'm one hundred percent against this—"

"Hush, woman."

She sighed pointedly in his ear, which he seemed to ignore. He held both arms out and continued to inch along, a foot balancing on each wire. Max shot a nervous look toward the dark pool ahead of them and gripped him tightly, her muscles clenching when he finally stepped out of the tunnel. The ceiling was much higher here, so high that Loki was able to stand up straight and take a moment to gather his bearings. He still leaned forward, clearly preferring to fall forward rather than backward, and for that she was thankful.

"This isn't so bad," he mused.

"Just keep walking." She tried not to sound pushy, but the sooner they were over the giant black pool of death, the better. He nodded, arms still out, and Max suddenly realized she was breathing in shallow, uneven breaths.

Suddenly, something squished between her body and Loki's—it felt like an arm. Max shrieked when something—or someone—dragged her upward, and she let go of Loki in shock before she even realized what she was doing. Up she flew, a strong arm around her, and she screamed as something massive barreled out from the shadowy wall and tackled Loki off the wires.

"Loki!"

Everything happened so quickly, and she watched the dark mass consisting of Loki and an attacker slam into the stone wall on the other side of the chamber, breaking through like it was nothing but cardboard. With her only source of defense currently occupied (and quite noisily so), Max turned back to her own situation, wriggling and twisting in the arms of whoever had her.

"Stop moving!"

The voice was human (male), but how could she know for sure? Those aliens sounded just like people most of the time too.

"Let go of me!" she shrieked, pushing at the arm around her and digging her nails into the thin fabric of the man's shirt. Just as she reached for the gun in her pocket, she twisted far enough that her attacker lost his grip on her, and Max plummeted back down onto the wires. She hit all four with such force that she actually bounced back up a little and tumbled over the side into the pool.

"Loki!"

She cried for him as the current took hold of her and sucked her under. She kept her eyes open, trying to keep her head above the water, but she didn't have the strength to combat the force dragging her down. When she called for Loki, the sound was gargled with water, and she was pulled under for the last time.

A body broke the surface as she sunk down into the murky water, and her hands groped upward when she saw something vague swimming toward her. At this point, she didn't have the luxury to be choosy: she didn't want to die, and if her rescuer was one of _them_, so be it. She took hold of the mass of red and blue, wrapping her arms around a slim, muscular chest, and held tight as they shot toward the surface—like they were being pulled by a rope of some kind.

Max gasped for air once they breached the surface of the pool, and her attacker—or rescuer—pushed her toward the cement edge. She clambered out gracelessly and cowered back against the wall, eyes wide and heart racing. There was a massive hole in the wall itself, and she assumed this was where Loki's attacker waited until Max had been taken. In fact, she could actually see artificial light in the corridor beyond.

The water sloshed noisily as her attacker dragged himself out, and Max scrambled away when she realized he was wearing a mask. In fact, she couldn't see a single piece of skin anywhere on him—just red and blue and black, expect for a pair large white eyes. She screamed again when he crawled forward, though the sound was nothing more than a breathless wail.

"It's okay!" he insisted, holding up his hands. "Hey, it's okay!"

She continued to back away, slipping on the wet siding and almost tumbling back into the pool, but she stopped when he pulled off his mask.

"Hey," he started again, tossing the garment aside as he also panted. "It's okay… I don't want to hurt you. I mean…" He took a breath, swallowing thickly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Her eyes swept over his face—he was just a kid. With a wet mass of thick brown hair, he couldn't be older than twenty, and that was being generous.

"My name's Peter," he told her softly, and Max turned quickly when she heard Loki grunt from the other side of the hall. Something cracked noisily, like a rock being split in two.

Suddenly, the guy's hand was on her wrist, and she pushed him away with all her might, crawling back a little further. She glanced down at his chest and, in the light that filtered in from the nearby hole, she saw an insignia of sorts.

"Oh my god," she muttered, leaning forward a little to scrutinize the image. "You're… You're that guy from the news, that… the…"

"The spider-man?" he offered, and she nodded. Ben had forced her to read about him when he first broke onto the news scene, though she, like many, didn't believe the footage was real. Even now, she couldn't imagine the thin kid sitting in front of her to be the same guy who battled a giant lizard in Manhattan.

"Peter," he said again. "My name's Peter."

She was about to offer hers, but stopped when Loki stumbled out of the other hole without his attacker. He then leapt across the entire chamber, clearing the wires and pool before landing directly between her and her newfound superhero. He then hoisted Peter up by the neck and hurled him into the hole, teeth gritted and eyes wide.

"Wait, wait," she called, reaching out for him before he murdered _the_ Spider-man. "Wait, he's on our side!"

Just as she was about to grab him, she slipped into the pool again, but Loki hauled her out before she had a chance to panic. He set her down in the hole, far from the pool, and crouched in front of her. Somewhere behind her, she heard Peter groan.

"Are you alright?" he asked, running his hands over her face and arms and shoulders, eyes sweeping her for injuries. She nodded, grasping both of his hands and holding them against her cheeks. It was then she noticed that his lip was split.

"Are you?"

"Of course," he muttered, stroking her skin with his thumbs. "What came after me was _not_ human—"

"Hey," came a gruff voice at the entrance of the hole. "I'm more human than you are, pal."

Loki straightened up immediately, and Max scuttled behind him—horrified—as a giant creature strode toward them. He looked like he was completely made of rock, though she saw a pair of shorts hugging his waist. As Loki prepared himself for the attack with Max hiding behind his leg, Peter reappeared, stepping between the two foes with his arms outstretched.

"Guys, guys, let's just cool it," he said quickly, looking between them both. "We're all human here… sort of."

She arched an eyebrow at him when he looked down at her, a small smile on his lips.

"I'm Peter," he repeated with a hand on his chest, this time for Loki's benefit, "and this is Ben. We're sorry that we attacked you… We thought you were… the other guys."

"Well we're not," Max insisted, wrapping her arm around Loki's leg when it seemed like he was going to lunge at both of them. He shot her an irritated look, clearly unhappy to be cowed.

"Okay, and neither are we," Peter said slowly. "We gave our names, so…"

"I'm Max," she offered, and then nodded toward Loki, "and his name is Loki."

"Nice to meet you." Peter extended his hand for Loki to shake, but he simply stared down at the boy with an unimpressed expression. "Okay then."

"Wait a minute… Loki?" The rock creature known now as Ben took a step forward. "Loki as in… the asshole who tried to level Manhattan a couple of years ago? The guy the Avengers dealt with?"

"You seem well-informed," Loki purred, his head cocked to the side. "Are you another one of Fury's lackeys? Or are you simply a S.H.I.E.L.D. experiment gone awry?"

Max braced herself when Ben started forward, but once again Peter played the referee.

"Look, we can stand here and fight and destroy more of the sewer line," he reasoned, "or we can go somewhere safe. We're hauled up in an apartment building on Central Park West. There's food and water and shelter—"

"Hey, since when were we extending the hospitality?" Ben demanded, nudging Peter with a thick, rocky finger. "It ain't your building, kid."

"We'll be finding our own shelter, anyway," Loki told them stiffly. "We have no use for handouts."

Max's stomach gurgled in protest. The thought of somewhere safe and clean, stocked with food and normal people, was too appealing to turn down. However, before she could try to reason with Loki, Peter made his most persuasive argument yet.

"Look," he started, pointing down at Max, "she isn't going to make it out here much longer. She looks like she's about to pass out… Ben's friends are doctors—"

"Not that kind of doctor—"

"But they can fix her up," Peter argued, turning back to address his companion. "I mean, we have some first aid kits… and he could be useful." He thumbed Loki over his shoulder.

"No." Loki sounded even less keen now than he did before. "I'm not _useful_ to you—"

"Loki," she whispered, tugging on his pants hard enough that he looked down at her. "Please?"

"Come on, man," she heard Peter say to Ben. "We can't just leave her down here to die."

"You don't know who these people are, Max," Loki whispered, ducking down to speak to her on her level. "They could be just as bad as the rest of them… It's better if we find our own shelter."

"No, no, he's the Spider-man," she told him, glancing up at Peter and nodding. "He's a superhero… He fought a giant lizard that was trying to take over the city."

Even with the shadows across his face, she could see the skepticism. "Fought a lizard?"

"It was on the news," she said sheepishly. He ought to believe that sort of stuff, considering he was technically a god from another planet. "Anyway, we should find more people like you."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Like me?"

"You know," she continued, pointing between him and the other two, "superhuman… type… people."

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to laugh at her. Instead, he sighed deeply.

"Max—"

"I just want a bed tonight."

"They could be anyone—"

"He had the mask and costume—"

"_Anyone_ can wear a mask."

"I can prove that I'm who she says I am," Peter interjected, which made Loki grit his teeth. They both looked back at him, and the man darted toward the nearest stone wall and started to climb, completely unaided by any sort of strings or pulleys. Instead, he scaled the wall with the tips of his fingers, and Max smiled triumphantly up at Loki.

"See?"

Loki looked between both of them, the same severe expression on his face. It was then that she realized she was shivering, chilled to the bone from her soaked clothing and hair, and Loki touched her arm, which was covered in goosebumps.

"We will accept your hospitality," he said stiffly, scooping his arms under her knees and around her back. Max let out an embarrassing squeal when he hoisted her up, and even if this was a little more demeaning, Max preferred to be carried like so instead of clinging to his back: her legs had had enough.

"We've got about a half-hour walk that way," Ben grunted, pushing by Peter and glowering at Loki as he passed.

When he marched through the light cast by a flickering light bulb, which appeared to be set over a control panel of some kind in the wall, Max studied him. Peter may have said they were all sort of humans, but she couldn't see an ounce of humanity in the guy: he was completely made of light brown—almost orange—rock. Yes, there appeared to be ten fingers and toes, but that was the extent of it. She couldn't see his ears, nor did he have hair, and he lumbered along rather than walked.

Loki blocked Peter's path before he could catch up with Ben, and Max glanced up hesitantly at him.

"If you even think of attacking either of us again," he said softly, "I will slaughter both of you."

"He's kidding," Max chuckled, patting Loki's chest. "Totally kidding."

"I'm really not." Loki took a step toward him. "I mean it, Spider-man."

"Yeah, of course," Peter babbled. "Truce for now… We're all in this together." He gave a nervous laugh. "You know, that sort of thing."

Peter darted around them and jogged after Ben. He paused briefly to grab a knapsack from a crevice, from which he pulled out a flashlight, and then slung the bag over his shoulder. Loki watched them for a moment as Max tried to figure out where to put her arms—around his neck? In the end, she tucked them up to her chest, using the heat to warm herself. Her feet were actually starting to sting now—more than before, anyway—and she just wanted to sit somewhere soft and rip the damn duct tape off.

And eat. And sleep. And shower. And brush her hair. And wallow.

She sighed.

"You know," she muttered when Loki finally started to follow their new companions down what looked like some abandoned mining shaft one might see on a TV show, "you could try being nicer."

"No."

The way he spoke was enough to keep her follow-up comment to herself, and Max bit her lower lip as she readjusted her arms again.

Fine. She wasn't asking for him to be best friends with everyone they ran in to, but they weren't going to survive without the occasional helping hand from the ones who _were_ willing to give it. She glanced up at him, but he looked too focused on the other two to even notice her anymore.

* * *

She felt so small in his arms.

Loki tried not to look at her, to keep his attention on the two creatures ahead of him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. With her stamina decreasing over each passing hour, Loki wondered just how long she would last until she succumbed to her injuries. In fact, he was surprised—and a little proud—that she had lasted this long.

In the beginning, Max was the last person he wanted to see on his third, and hopefully final, venture to this abysmal realm. She was a reminder of a time where he was actually content with his lot in life, when he could spend a day in bed with a woman and not feel guilt or regret. She was the blissful summer afternoon showing up in the middle of a hailstorm, and Loki would have preferred she stay a happy memory. But then she spoke. She yelled at him, her anger drudging up emotions he had buried long ago, and then he realized he didn't want her to go. She woke him up again.

No, Loki realized he needed her. She had helped him survive on Earth before, and even if she was nothing more than a silent supporter, he knew that she would help him comb through the darkness once more. With his strength returning, he knew he needn't be a prisoner for long—not when he had someone on his side. He was lucky to have her with him, and once she yanked that horrible device out of his mouth, Max Wright proved her worth. His loyalty and affection for the human woman ran deep—deeper than he expected, anyway—and he wasn't about to leave her in the mess his foolishness had created.

She was more or less the same as he remembered. Her hair was longer, her face a little older, but she looked like the woman who crawled into his bed after a long day at school and complained about cafeteria workers ruining her lunch. She was the same woman who cut his hair, who brought him footwear when he ran from their home in a rage—barefoot and stupid. Her smile was different these days. Before, she gave it so freely and willingly, and Loki had wanted to keep her grins all to himself. Over the last few days, her smiles were rare and half-hearted.

He needed to constantly remind himself that she was not accustomed to war. While he could wipe out a contingent of soldiers without a care, Max shrieked over vermin and cried over violence. She was strong, stronger than people would give her credit for, but there was only so much an inexperienced human could take in a situation like this. It was difficult to be patient with her, to tolerate her inability to see the bad in her fellow man, but he vowed to try.

Once, long ago, he considered taking her away from this realm. They could travel the universe together, she and he, and he imagined that she would go willingly. As he carried her on his back for these last endless hours, Loki realized his thoughts on that particular situation hadn't changed much. He would leave this place. If he could escape undetected while the Pagurolid race devoured the planet, he would have her in tow with her curiosity and naivety and outward delight for his magic. She had laughed before and asked him if he had lost his mind, but now that her world was crumbling—and would surely fall—Loki suspected she would sing him a different tune when he made the proposition again.

He wished they hadn't gone along with Peter the Spider-man and Ben the abomination. When the rock creature first attacked him, Loki thought something had exploded and he was hit with the aftermath of the destroyed sewer system. Much to his surprise, the rocks moved—and they threw a good punch. The only way he was able to beat his foe was to out-dance him, to be the faster fighter, and Loki had always been so nimble on his feet. After making his escape, he saw to Max, and while she looked wetter and not bloodier, he knew she was exhausted. The boy might become a problem, but Max appeared to know something about him that Loki did not. He wasn't willing to trust them, but he could trust her.

Stark Tower would have been the ideal base. It was a building Loki actually knew in this mammoth city, and with all of Stark's advanced technology, he might have been able to contact someone who could be of use. Unfortunately, all those plans fell to the wayside when the boy mentioned Max's poor health, and Loki realized he couldn't push her anymore.

It would have been faster to leave her behind. He could have been across the city by now, fighting his way through Pagurolids in order to find an escape. But leaving her hardly even felt like an option, no matter how much she occasionally irked him.

He wouldn't call it love. No, not love—he lost that with her when they were torn apart. However, beneath the anger and the malice and the broken outer shell, Loki's affection for her remained almost entirely untouched.

They needed to get out of this realm—fast.

She jolted upward, inhaling sharply and struggling a little. He looked down at her again, noticing the way her eyes darted around wildly, and readjusted his grip so that she could rest her head on his shoulder.

"I think I fell asleep," she muttered, rubbing her eyes and breathing heavily. "At least… I hope I was asleep."

"You were," he assured her quietly. "Whatever it was you saw, it was a dream."

She nodded. He had been wondering when she might start having nightmares; her mind was probably saturated with the horrors she had seen these last few days, and she would need to learn to get through them on her own.

"Good." She stretched her back, arching her chest forward and then leaning her head against him. "How long was I out for?"

"Not long." The tunnel was almost as monotonous a march as the sewer pipes had been, but at least he could stand straight here. He cleared his throat and called out to the boy, who had been keeping a safe distance from him.

"How much longer, Spider-man?"

"Don't call him that," Max muttered, smirking a little in the dull lighting. "He may not like it."

"I don't care whether he likes it," he said in return, careful to keep his tone light. She wasn't truly chastising him, after all. The boy slowed somewhat, but he still stayed an arm-length away from Loki.

"Maybe another ten minutes," he told them, using his flashlight to highlight the route they needed to take. Ben carried on as if he was the only one in the tunnel, never once glancing back to check on the rest of the party. "We go up some stairs and through a door, and then we're in the basement of the building."

"So, it's all a big secret then?" Max asked, sounding less drowsy now. "You guys have been able to move around without them knowing?"

"So far, yeah," the boy said with a nod. He readjusted the thick strap over his shoulder, and Loki wondered what he was carrying around. "We've taken the precautions to keep the other guys out… For a while, it looked like they were going building to building to get all the people into the park. I was just lucky that I was in the neighbourhood and Reed took me in."

"Reed?"

"Reed Richards," the boy clarified as he pointed at the creature's back. "He's Ben's friend, and we worked together as Oscorp last year."

"His name sounds familiar," Max insisted, which made the boy chuckle.

"It should… A week doesn't go by where Reed Richards doesn't make the paper for something or another."

"Oh my god, he's in the—"

"Fantastic Four?"

Max paused, worrying over her lower lip. "Well, I was going to say restoration society who worked on all the old nuclear testing sites recently, but… yeah, that's ringing a bell too."

Loki spoke up briefly. "Should I be aware of this… Fantastic—"

"Is that… the Thing?" Max carried on, cutting him off as she gestured toward their fourth companion. The boy wrinkled his nose, holding a finger over his lips.

"Yeah, but don't call him that."

"Holy shit."

"It _really_ grates on his nerves."

"I can't believe it."

"And I'm sure you noticed he has a pretty limited temper with strangers."

"Spider-man and the Fantastic Four."

"Yeah."

"That's just…"

"I know."

"I mean—"

"Enough!" Loki snapped, silencing both of their pointless babbling. He rolled his eyes. "Were you being honest when you claimed to have supplies?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely," the boy insisted. He seemed to prefer speaking to Max, but that was more of a luxury in Loki's eyes. "They bought this massive apartment building and converted it into three different apartment suites, a lab, a testing facility… with four or five kitchens. We should be good in there for a while."

"Okay, so what was with the wires then?" Max asked, pointing a thumb over Loki's shoulder.

"We're filling all the nearby tunnels with them," the boy explained, "and when someone walks along them like you did, we'll be able to detect them. It's sort of a… cheap security system that we don't have to waste expenses on."

"Ah."

"I mean, aside from my webbing," he muttered, briefly touching his right wrist with a frown, "but safety's worth more than that."

When Max said nothing in return, Loki looked down at her. She appeared perplexed, her forehead wrinkled and eyes unfocused, but he chose not to comment on it. Instead, he started walking faster, closing the distance between them and the rock creature with the boy lagging behind.

Sure enough, they came upon a set of stone stairs that climbed up along the side of a wall. With a metal railing for support, Loki wondered if this was always meant to be some sort of escape route from the building should the occupants ever need one. Ben only barely fit through the archway, shoving the metal door open with his massive hands. Loki ducked slightly to get through, and once he passed under, it was like stepping from one world to another. The sewers—and most of the train tunnels—felt humid and uncomfortable, even to his toughened skin. The basement, on the other hand, was cool and clean—not a hint of debris or rat in sight. Max tugged her body up by his shirt, sitting straighter and head darting around to take in the new sights, and Loki heard the boy lock the door behind them.

The one element that did look damaged was the elevator shaft. Loki had been in several during his various visits to Earth, and none of their doors were permanently bent open with the car sitting outside.

"What happened here?" Max asked as she nodded toward the damaged elevator car.

"We took out the elevators," the rock creature insisted. "Didn't want somebody getting into it that wasn't supposed to… We also welded the doors on the first couple stairwells shut. I'm sure they've tried getting in to the building, but there's no way it's been easy."

"So how do you get out?"

"This is the only way," the boy told her, darting around them and throwing his bag into the abandoned elevator. "This or off the roof, actually."

"Oh."

"How clever," Loki droned. He knew he ought to give credit where credit was due, especially if these people were about to fix Max. Ben shot him a look, his small eyes narrowing somewhat, but said nothing.

The boy reached inside the elevator shaft and knocked on something. Moments later, Loki watched the space light up with various small patches of light in the walls, and he moved closer for a better look. There appeared to be two thick cables swinging down in the middle of the shaft, and he assumed he would be climbing them in order to get anywhere in this building.

"We can use the stairwell about four floors up," the boy told him, "but it's faster to just go at it like this."

"Hurray," Max grumbled, practically curling inward in his arms. "So glad I took my super strength pills today."

"I will be carrying you, obviously," he said. He then rolled his eyes somewhat at her dramatics.

"Actually," the boy interjected, "I thought it would be easier if I took her… You probably need both hands to climb."

"Max will be perfectly fine on my back," Loki said tightly. He scoffed: as if he was going to hand over her well-being to some stranger.

"Yeah, and I'm sure on a good day she could hold on for a couple of minutes, but today's not a good day," the boy carried on. "Look, I can hold her with one arm and scale the elevator with the other. It'll be better for her—"

"How about we not talk about _her_ like she isn't here," Max added, squirming in Loki's arms. He assumed she wanted to be set down, but he still wasn't completely comfortable with the idea. "Peter, let's just do this."

"Max…"

"It's fine," she murmured as he gently set her grey-coated feet back on the ground. "I'm fine."

He didn't trust them, but he had to trust her. He needed to trust someone. He took a deep breath, hovering around her as she limped over to the boy and wrapped her arms around his neck. She seemed so fragile in that moment, and Loki bit his cheek to keep from yanking her back and doing everything himself. Instead, he simply watched as the boy took a few steps closer to opening of the elevator shaft, and then pointed his arm up into it.

"You ready?"

Max nodded quickly. "Yup."

"I've got you, okay?"

"Okay."

"Here we go…"

Loki watched as a rope-like material shot from the boy's wrist. Spurting out from the ridiculous outfit, the same substance as the wires in the sewer snaked up, and moments later, Max disappeared with a shrill cry. He darted forward, peering up the chute and seeing the pair fly up, pulled along by the rope—which had found its anchor on the wall countless floors up. The Spider-man stopped suddenly, which made Max's nervous laughter echo all the way back down to the basement, and Loki watched the boy swing them both into an opening (he assumed into a door) and disappear.

"You just gonna stand there?"

He turned back slowly to glare at the rock creature, who nodded toward the swinging cables.

"Get climbing, bub."

Loki's lip twitched, but he turned nonetheless and peered into the vertical corridor. There was still a bit of a drop below should he fall, but that was hardly a concern with his strength returning. So, he took a running jump at the cables, wrapping his arms and legs around them on the first try. He then started to shimmy up, staring fixedly at the location where he last saw Max. Halfway through the climb, the boy swung down to greet him—Loki understood where his nickname came from.

"Do you want a lift?"

"I assure you, I am far heavier than she was," Loki grunted. The climb wasn't necessarily tiring, but it also wasn't the most enjoyable activity he had ever partaken in. "I will be just fine."

"Are you sure?" The boy climbed up his webbing, standing perfectly upright as Loki carried on. "I've held a car with this before."

"Where is Max?" Loki asked, preferring to change the subject rather than argue. It would only frustrate him more.

"She's with Sue."

"Who?"

"Reed's partner," the boy replied. "She's going to help Max with her feet… Why did she duct tape them?"

"I… You'll need to ask her that," Loki muttered, using longer strides now to move faster. The boy shrugged and then shot back up, disappearing into the opening. Loki estimated he had about four more floors to clear, and he managed to do it in a timely manner.

Unfortunately, once he reached the opening, he was at a loss about how to get over there. He started swinging on the cable, but was once again begrudgingly grateful when the boy extended a hand to help him get out of the shaft completely.

He found himself in a foyer lined with tile and cream-coloured walls. There was a small table with copious amounts of envelopes and a rug that he found distasteful. Max was nowhere to be seen, and as he straightened himself out, he could hear Ben starting the climb from the basement level.

"Where is she?"

"She's in here."

The voice came from the man Loki assumed to be Reed Richards. He was a thin, lean man with black hair and a smattering of facial scruff. There was some authority to the way he stalked down the hall toward them, and when he held out his hand for Loki to grasp, he actually did it this time.

"Reed Richards," he said, his grip weak in Loki's palm. "Do you need any medical assistance?"

"No," he said, forcing a small smile. "No, I won't ever need any of that."

The man frowned, but seemed not to question it. Instead, he gestured for Loki to follow him down the hall. They turned into a large room lit by very low lighting that smelled like garlic, but even in a room lit only by a few lamps, Loki spotted Max.

The space reminded him of their apartment in Masonville: the sitting area and the kitchen were essentially one, and they were divided by a grand countertop island. The key difference between this room and the one he had lived in for so many months was that there was good quality furniture as far as the eye could see. Max was seated on a couch that appeared well-kept and clean, and everything actually matched, right down to the decorations on the walls.

"Hey," she greeted as he stalked across the room, his eyes flickering toward the woman kneeling in front of her, "what a climb, huh?"

He smiled, opting to stand behind her with a hand on the nape of her neck. The woman—he assumed this was the "Sue" the boy spoke of—was slim like her man, but her hair was ashen and her features were fairer. She looked tired as she assessed the small scratches on Max's hands.

"This is my partner, Sue," Reed told him unnecessarily. The woman glanced up and smiled, but quickly resumed her examination of Max. "I don't think I caught your name."

Loki pursed his lips, bracing himself for the reaction that the rock creature had—clearly his name still carried some weight here.

"Loki."

Reed's thick eyebrows shot up and he folded his arms across his chest. "Loki… Loki, the destroyer of Manhattan?"

"The very same," he remarked stiffly, his hand drifting to Max's shoulder as she shifted. "I cannot say that the name rings true this time around."

Sue continued to work on Max as the silence dragged on, getting her to stand briefly so that she could flex her arms and legs. Reed, on the other hand, observed Loki, who did the same. The man seemed pensive, not aggressive like his deformed companion, and after a few moments of contemplation, he finally spoke again.

"You're on Nick Fury's shit list."

Loki's eyebrows shot up. He then let out a soft chuckle. "I'm not all that surprised."

Reed's smile was cautious, and Loki noticed the way his shoulders slumped down when he exhaled.

"Hey," the man said with a shrug, "so am I."

"Did you also try to destroy an entire city?" It was Max who asked, and Loki shot her a look as Sue helped her settle back down on the couch. She smirked up at him, and in that moment he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he swallowed down the urge, bringing his hand back to rest on her shoulder. Now wasn't the time.

"I wouldn't work for his agency," Reed told her, "and I still won't… He's a very persistent man."

"Hungry for power," Loki added, which made the man nod.

Max cried out suddenly, shooting forward and batting Sue's hands away from her feet.

"Sorry, sorry, that just really hurt," she babbled, hands in fists as she leaned against the back of the couch. "Sorry."

"Why on Earth would you put duct tape on open wounds?" the woman demanded. It was in her voice that Loki saw her age. She and Reed were both middle-aged, but Reed's years were etched in the grey highlights in his dark hair. Sue, on the other hand, was a lovely woman by human standards, but her voice held wisdom—maturity. "These could be infected now."

"I panicked," Max said sheepishly. "I'm not… I'm not really in the best headspace right now."

"She hasn't eaten anything properly in two days," Loki insisted, feeling the need to defend her in front of the newcomers. "It is a mere wonder she's awake right now."

"There's a pizza in the oven," Reed told him, "and macaroni and cheese on the stove… It'll be ready in twenty minutes or so."

Max nodded, and Loki could only imagine her colossal hunger pains: his appetite was nonstop as a human, but it had receded back to its original state now that he was fully restored.

"This needs to come off _now_," Sue muttered, pushing herself to her feet and running a hand through her hair. "I'll get some scissors and antiseptic creams… Hopefully there isn't too much damage."

Loki watched the panic set in across Max's face as the woman hurried out of the room, and he tightened his grip on her shoulder. She grabbed his hand, taking a few calming breaths.

"Why is Fury displeased with you?" he inquired as the silence lagged, hoping some conversation would distract her. Reed rolled his eyes.

"Sue and I decided after Valeria was born that we would only work legal jobs," he explained, glancing up at the door as his woman jogged back in. "You can't take the kind of work Fury has when you've got kids."

"Is that why you guys aren't doing anything?" Max asked weakly as Sue kneeled in front of her. "I mean, about the alien invasion."

"We—"

"Aren't you supposed to be superheroes?" Loki frowned when he heard the way her voice trembled. "Don't you… save cities and stuff?"

Loki knew what she wanted, what she saw in him now. She saw him and these people as extra-human, as individuals who would sweep in to save the day. Unfortunately, as Loki looked between Reed and Sue—and thought back to the wiry boy and the rock creature—he didn't see warriors. They weren't fighters—not the kind needed to fend off an invasion, anyway.

"Max," he said gently, "hush."

"Give me your foot," Sue murmured, taking the limb gently and setting it in her lap. "This is going to be painful."

Max's hand tightened around his again, her nails digging into his flesh.

"You can stay here as long as you need to," Reed told them. "We could always use a man of your… ability."

"I am not a defensive strategy—"

"We've got that covered," Reed insisted, nodding back to the doorway. Loki looked over his shoulder and spied the rock creature lurking. They made eye contact briefly before the creature stalked off, grumbling loudly.

"I see."

"It's helpful to know you'd be good in a fight," the man continued. Max whimpered. "That's all."

"Ow!"

"It doesn't seem infected…" Loki leaned forward to watch what the woman was doing to Max. She appeared to be peeling the tape off slowly, using some sort of oil to aid the process. "You're really lucky—"

"Yeah, that's me," Max ground out through gritted teeth. "All luck."

"But I'm going to need to wrap these after I clean them," Sue sighed, shaking her head. "It's going to _really_ hurt."

"Okay." Max shut her eyes and dug her nails further into Loki's skin, every muscle taut under Sue's ministrations.

"We have some rules for the building that everyone has to follow," Reed started, perhaps also realizing Max could use the distraction. Loki arched a curious eyebrow. "Don't go in the labs without us… I know it'll be tempting, but there's dangerous stuff in there."

"Consider my curiosity leashed," Loki droned.

"We try to use the water and electric at night," the man continued, checking each rule off on a finger. "If they're monitoring utilities while they look for people, they'll notice spikes during the day when the prices are highest. Also, any lights that are on have to stay on. We want to building to look abandoned, which means no going near the windows during the day, and no ventures onto the roof."

"A rule Peter needs to start sticking to," Sue grumbled, snipping away some excess tape. "You need to tell him, Reed."

"Yeah," the man said absently, "I will."

"We will abide by whatever rules you have set in place," Loki promised.

He wasn't there to cause problems, nor did he want any to arise because of this new alliance. However, as he surveyed Reed and Sue interact, talking about the best way to proceed with Max's feet, he decided that they could have stumbled into worse people to seek shelter from. The rock creature—Ben, he reminded himself irritably—might prove to be an annoyance, but that seemed to be the way of this realm.

Ben: always a problem.

* * *

"How are your feet?" Loki inquired, one arm around Max's waist as his other hand helped her balance. They climbed the well-lit, clean stairwell of Reed's tower slowly, as it was the only safe way for her to travel to get to their new lodgings. She let out a long sigh, clearly focused on taking it one step at a time.

"Better," she managed tightly, wincing when she put too much pressure on the fresh, thick bandages. "It's nice to have some padding… Your wife did a really good job."

"She's not my…" Reed trailed off behind them, and cleared his throat. "I'll pass the message along."

It took a painfully long time to remove every last bit of tape from Max's feet, and afterward, Sue dressed her wounds with as much precision as she could. Despite not being a medical doctor, the woman did a perfectly fine job. By then, their dinner had finished cooking, but Loki and Max were treated to separate showers and a clean set of clothing before they ate anything. It felt glorious to be clean again, and although Reed's pants were a little tight, they were not a horrible fit—they were close in height, which made things easier. Max opted for a baggy sweater and fresh track pants, preferring the comfort of Johnny Storm's—Sue's brother, who Loki had yet to meet—clothes to Sue's smaller attire.

Their first proper meal in days was in silence. Max's eyes had bags beneath them, and several times Loki worried she might fall asleep in her food. However, she continued to impress him by getting through three pieces of pizza before professing to be stuffed.

Along with Sue's brother, Loki had not been acquainted with the two children of the tower yet either, but he assumed that was for precautionary measures. They were hidden away on their floor with their uncle, and Loki figured they would meet once their parents decided Loki and Max were not a threat. Perhaps tomorrow.

There was much that Loki wished to discuss with Reed, who seemed like a perfectly reasonable and thoughtful human, but that would also need to wait. The tower residents were eager to depart to their dark bedrooms for the night, away from windows that might give them up to outsiders, and Max was at the very end of her rope. So, Reed offered to show them to a floor that was built initially for visiting family members, but was now Loki and Max's residence until they saw fit to leave. He thanked the man privately for his generosity, though he kept his appreciation brief.

It took an age to get up there with Max walking, and Loki simply wanted to carry her. However, she seemed keen to go on her own now that she had her raw feet wrapped in countless layers of gauze and bandages. When they finally reached the door on the second highest floor of the tower, Loki and Max seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief.

"The kitchen is on the floor below," Reed insisted as they entered the dark hallway. "It isn't really stocked with much, but you can move some food up to the fridge if you'd like."

"We will discuss that tomorrow," Loki insisted.

"It's just two bedrooms and a sitting room on this floor," the man continued. "Let me know if you need anything."

"You've done more than enough."

Max hobbled toward one of the open doorways, using the light from the stairwell for guidance. Loki, meanwhile, exchanged a nod with Reed and wished him a pleasant sleep—the courtesy felt necessary. When the man finally disappeared, the entire floor was shrouded in darkness, and Loki used the light from the giant window at the end of the hall to find his way around.

Like Reed said, there were two bedrooms on the right side of the corridor, and Max already seemed to have made herself at home in one. When Loki checked in on her, he saw her seated on a small bed in the corner, her hands in her lap and her eyes closed. Nodding, he carried on to the next room, which appeared similar in size, but had three large windows that took up an entire wall. With the light from nearby buildings illuminating the space, he spied another small bed, a dresser, and a desk with no chair. There also appeared to be a bathroom that connected the two rooms, but Max's door was closed.

As he stalked back into the hall, he heard her gently shut her bedroom door, blocking him out completely. He stared at the dark barrier for a moment before taking the hint and returning to his room.

Sometime later, he heard her sobbing—horrible, gut-wrenching weeping that permeated through the walls and doors between them. He tore himself away from the window and was in the bathroom before he stopped. Loki lingered on the other side of the door, listening to her cry, until he finally turned away again and situated himself back in front of the window, lost in thought.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Ugh I'm **_**sorry**_** this took ten years to update. … I mean, not really. Less than two weeks. I'm aiming for one update a week, but like I said in my last AN, I just started a new job. Which I hate. I still work at my other job, so when my contract expires at the end of the month, I will **_**not**_** be renewing. Anyway, two jobs basically means working full-time, which I've never done before. Also, I've started doing some freelance writing work—last week I was actually **_**paid**_** to write smutty fiction for a publishing company, so **_**yeay**_**! However, that ate into my fanfic time and made my wrists sort of sore, so here we are, later than I wanted. **

**Still. We're here. Just know that I'm always either working on this story or planning to start a new chapter. It won't be abandoned, and if I take longer than usual, check my tumblr (link on my profile) for updates about what's happening. **

**Soo this was a long chapter, but it sort of felt like a necessary evil to me. I wanted to get everyone caught up and introduced to some of the new characters, and I'm trying to do more showing than telling with the plot development.**

**Like I said in the epilogue of TSiF, if you don't know Spiderman or the Fantastic Four, it's totally cool. My knowledge of them is vague (for the FF, anyway), and I'm sort of loosely basing them on a combination of movie and comic lore. **

**I hope Loki's point of view didn't disappoint! I sort of like the fact that they are on the same page, but not aware they are on the same page, and… **_**yes**_** to delicious drama. I'm really excited for Loki and Max's developments in the next chapter, which I plan to start writing ASAP (though I have another ghostwriting gig due this week, so I'll probably start it toward the end of the week). **

**For those of you who guessed it, last chapter's title was a line from the old Spiderman cartoon theme song! Ten points and drinks all around!**

**Much love to all of you, dearies! Hopefully, I'll see you all again soon!**


	9. They took your Love once

Max awoke with a stiff neck and tears in her eyes. Breathing heavily, she sat up and wiped the wet streams away, groaning when she realized she had fallen asleep with her head propped up against the wall, her body splayed across her new bed. The mattress was probably harder than the metal piping she had slept in the day before, but at least it was indoors and rat-free.

Her dreams had been awful. After Reed showed her and Loki to their floor, Max was just about ready to collapse—and she wanted to do it alone. Loki had already spent all this time looking after her, and when she realized she was in the verge of a full-tilt mental breakdown, she closed her door and locked herself in to the dark room. It was there, as she sat on the edge of that hard mattress, that she really took the time to process everything. Aliens. Death. Lost friends. No phone. No connection to the outside world—no Nolan. They were all thoughts she had been suppressing so far, ones that she had tried not to think about, but the mental wall she threw up started to crumble once she was alone.

She hadn't cried so much in a long time. Even the aftermath of Nolan's death felt like a bit of sniveling compared to the shit-storm of tears and snot and hyperventilating that came when she was finally free with her thoughts. When she couldn't cry anymore—who knows how long that actually took?—Max collapsed onto her bed and passed out, dead to the world and engulfed in dreams that were even more horrible than her reality. For a while, she watched a bullet obliterate Nolan's face while the men she met in the tunnel laughed in the distance. The rest were images that she couldn't remember, and she certainly didn't want to try—there was enough terror in her head for a lifetime.

After climbing to her feet, using the wall for support, she winced and hobbled toward what appeared to be a heavy set of curtains. Sue had done a good job at wrapping her feet, and she was as surprised as anyone to find that the cuts under the bandages weren't infected. So, while they were sore, aching with each step she took, Max knew they weren't life-threatening in the slightest. The rest of her body was stiff, and her cheek still felt swollen from where the butt of a gun hit it. However, for all the hassle her body went through, it was in a much better condition than her mind.

She could have done with some light. She understood why there was a rule to keep the lights in their current condition, but Max couldn't take the darkness anymore. As she approached the window covered in thick cloth, she could hear rain pounding against the pane, and when she yanked the curtain back, she saw an impressive thunderstorm in process. White streaks of lightning lit up the black sky, and fat droplets of water slammed against the window. She peered down toward the street level, and for a city that usually never slept, it was quiet. One car rolled by in the ten minutes that she waited, and it cruised along like it was on patrol—no joyrides by teens or taxis full of drunks tonight.

This morning?

She had no idea what time it was, but she assumed she hadn't been asleep for long. Sighing, she let the curtain fall, blocking out the flickering lights of nearby buildings and street lamps, and then turned toward the bathroom door. She hadn't done much investigating of her room yet, but it appeared empty aside from the bed—Reed said they were still in the process of decorating all the tower's floors. However, she had seen that she and Loki shared a bathroom again before she shut him out, and it was the bathroom that she needed desperately now.

The door creaked noisily when she opened it, and she could see directly through the small room to the other side. Loki appeared to have a curtain-less room, and the bright city lights gave the space an otherworldly glow. As Max inched forward, taking her time for the sake of her soles, she spied Loki's impressive outline in front of a window, his back to her and hands clasped. Only when she started to close his bathroom door did he glance over his shoulder, and it was barely a half-turn before he resumed staring out the window.

Using a bathroom in a pitch black room always reminded her of camping when she was a kid. Wandering out of her shared tent with Nolan to find the sad outdoor bathroom hut—it wasn't _real_ camping, but close enough—when her tiny bladder couldn't wait until morning was always an experience, and it would be forever seared into her brain when she searched for a toilet at night. Thankfully, this bathroom was not crawling with bugs, nor did it smell like a hundred other people had just used it. In fact, it all felt new: the toilet handle stuck when she pushed it, as if no one had used it in a few months.

The taps were roughly the same experience, and Max waited for a few moments for warm water before giving up. Instead, cold water splashed against her cheeks, and it was more comforting than she expected. She gritted her teeth when she touched her face, but a few more careful pokes indicated that it probably looked worse than it felt, and hopefully there would be no pain in a few days. Her eyes were swollen and probably red, but the icy chill of the water made them feel better. There were no towels anywhere, so Max dried her hands and face on her borrowed sweater.

It was then she had a decision to make. She could go back to her bedroom and curl up on that rock of a mattress, all the while praying that she would have a dreamless sleep. The alternative was immediately more attractive, and Max hobbled over to Loki's door once more and slipped into his bedroom. The rain had yet to let up any, slamming against his windows with such force that Max expected the glass to rattle.

Loki didn't turn back this time. He stayed in front of the window, stiff and still like some marble statue she'd find in her dream museum. For a moment, she stared at his back, waiting for him to say something—anything. Instead, they lapsed into silence, and she stalked across the room and clambered onto his equally hard bed. As she situated herself against the wall, tucking her legs beneath the thin blanket, she noticed he had a few more furnishings than she did, including a desk (but no chair) and a dresser. Her eyes darted toward him—like he would ever need a dresser again. Both of their clothes were hanging to dry somewhere in the tower, and Max assumed he would rather live in his one outfit than continue to borrow clothes from Reed Richards.

She hadn't expected superheroes to be so painfully ordinary. Hell, the pizza they had had for dinner was from a _box_. It was probably the same brand Max bought for her and Pat to share less than a week ago. Loki was right to shush her when she questioned their ordinariness, their inaction, but she couldn't sit around in polite silence for long. She'd speak up again, whether they liked it or not.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, highlighting the heavy raindrops on the windowpane, and Max counted the seconds before the thunder struck—four Mississippi beats.

"Does your brother make the thunderstorms?"

She leaned her head back against the wall, her voice thick and heavy, and she watched Loki's profile. His eyebrow shot up and he blinked rapidly, as if he had been in a trance before, and then shook his head.

"Only when he's bored." His jaw clenched, eyes drifting down to the streets below. "Don't call him that."

"What?"

"My brother."

She wanted to argue that he technically _was_ the man's brother, even if Loki lied about it and twisted the definition. Fortunately for them both, Max didn't have the energy—or desire—to pick a fight with him. So, she exhaled deeply instead, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her baggy sweater.

"Okay."

Blinking slowly, Max studied her companion for quite some time. He stood there in normal clothes—relatively normal, mind you—and right there he was both everything and nothing like the man she had lived with two years ago. He looked similar, though she could see how lean he was now, the way his cheeks sunk inward. He was Loki and yet he was also _Loki_, Asgardian and super-human. Although they were familiar with one another, it was like she had a whole new person to explore now, to inquire about, to discover. It was both heartbreaking and exciting, though she couldn't decide which feeling was stronger.

Max knew almost everything about his time with her in Masonville, and yet she knew _nothing_ about the rest of his life. Barely anything he told her had been true—as far as she was concerned, anyway. It was almost easier to pretend he was still that person, still her roommate and boyfriend. But times had changed, as had she and he, and there was no going back to any of it after this.

She continued to look at him, even when he turned back and sauntered toward her, arms hanging loose by his sides. There was no shame in her stare, and her eyes followed him from the window to the bed to the spot directly beside her. His long legs hung over the edge of the mattress, crooked and bent as he shuffled down so that they were the same height. Backs against the wall and hands in their laps, Max tilted her head to the side and continued to study him.

"You're looking at me."

He finally glanced in her direction, an eyebrow arched and his lips curved upward. Max returned the smile weakly, though it was a fleeting expression.

"It feels like a long time since I've been able to," she told him. "It's like I forgot what you looked like."

"Time will do that."

"Yeah."

She shifted onto her side, tucking her legs and bandaged feet under her, inching closer in the process.

"Were you a prisoner the whole time?" she asked. "I mean, since I last saw you."

He glanced down at his hands for a moment, as if to study them with some interest, and then nodded. A soft puff of air slipped through her lips, and before she realized it, her eyes were watering.

"I thought you just left me," she whispered. Loki closed his eyes slowly, creases settling across his forehead. "You just… disappeared, and I thought you left me."

Using the cuff of Johnny Storm's grey sweater, Max wiped her nose and eyes, sniffling noisily. For the longest time, she couldn't help but feel abandoned—like she wasn't good enough for him anymore. Never once did she express it to anyone, because she knew she was good enough for anyone she wanted to be, but it was a feeling that she couldn't help.

"Do you want to know what I was doing when they took me?" She nodded quickly when he looked at her. He spoke so quietly that she strained to hear, and when he closed his eyes again, she shuffled closer. "I was going to that… yoghurt shop. I thought I would wait there until you stopped being angry with me."

The laugh that slipped out seemed to startle both of them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to smother the few giggles that followed.

"That was your plan, was it?" she asked, shaking her head at him. "Eat some frozen yoghurt and wait for me to get over myself?"

"At the time it seemed like a very doable option," he admitted, smiling down at her when she nudged him in the side.

"For future reference, it's a really stupid idea."

"So I came to discover."

That managed to stop the laughter. Still, the tears seemed to have also stopped, and Max watched him lift a hand and set it on her leg. It trailed up and down the comforter, up to her hip and down to her calf, twice. It eventually came to rest on her knee, his fingers curving beneath the cap through the blanket. When she realized she was close enough, Max leaned against his shoulder. It took a lot of effort to keep from nestling up completely, and she kept her hands to herself—for the time being.

"What did they do to you?" She bit the insides of her cheeks when she finally asked the question that had been at the back of her mind. She wasn't sure if she wanted the gory details, but his time with _them_ felt like a part of his story, like it was something she ought to know.

"Max," he sighed, stroking her leg with his thumb, "I'm not going to tell you what they did to me."

"Loki—"

"I don't want to relive it, Max…" He sounded much firmer this time, like it was a subject he wouldn't broach. She could respect it, but it wasn't enough to quench her curiosity. "Don't ask me again."

She brought her hand down to hesitantly rest on his, which stilled his movements. Trailing her fingers over the backs of his, she wondered if she ought to encourage this—was this really the right time? As she wrapped her hand around his, she realized something suddenly felt off, and when she looked down at their clasped hands, she noticed it: he had no fingernails. She stared for a moment in disbelief—how had she missed that?

Loki let her snatch his other hand, and those fingers were also missing their tips.

"They're growing back," he muttered. "Slower than I had expected, but…"

She gathered both his hands in hers and brought them to her chest, simply holding them there.

"Do not pity me." He extracted one hand and used it to tilt her head up, a finger under her chin. "_Max_, do not pity—"

"I don't," she told him shakily. "Not even a little."

He cupped her cheek, bringing his forehead to rest against hers, and she clutched at his wrist, heart racing.

"I missed you."

Her words were nothing more than a breathless whisper, barely audible to herself. But she wouldn't deny it. She wouldn't pretend to feel something different now that he was back in front of her. Loki's eyebrows furrowed when she looked up at him—he appeared to be frowning. She murmured his name, once, twice, and then grasped his shirt collar.

They pulled one another forward, she by his shirt and he by her neck, and her skin prickled when his lips pressed to hers. The kiss was soft for a fraction of a second, and then Max practically threw her arm around his neck, hauling herself up as their lips parted. He felt more solid—if that was possible—than she remembered him being, but he tasted and smelled the same, and the same eyes bore back into hers when they fluttered open.

Her legs were stiff when she straddled him. Her cheek hurt when she kissed him. Everything hurt, in fact, and Max didn't care. She raked her fingers through his hair as his hands trailed down to her lower back, slipping under the woolly sweater against her skin. Breaking away for a moment, Max started to work on the small white buttons of his shirt, popping each one open with unsteady hands.

"Max—"

She cut him off with another kiss, slating her mouth over his and willingly opening it when he nipped at her lower lip. He seemed to let her slide the fabric off his shoulders once she had finished with the final button, and they barely broke apart long enough for him to yank her sweater off. She winced when it caught in her hair—he pulled gently then, his gaze focused on the task. Braless, she was happy that Sue had a tank top to lend her to wear beneath, but it didn't hide the darkening bruises across her skin.

Neither of them seemed to notice for long.

She kissed him harder than she might have before, feeling as though her regular style might not be enough now. He gave no indication that he disliked it, and when she felt his arousal between her legs, she ground down against it and tugged at his hair when he groaned. She wanted this—the closeness, the comfort. As his lips trailed down her neck, teeth raking across the sensitive skin, Max reached between them and started to undo his trousers, yanking the zipper down noisily.

He then lifted her and set her on her back, crawling between her thighs and running his lips along her torso, over fabric and skin alike. A beat of arousal pulsed within her, curling up from her abdomen and out through her limbs, and she lifted her hips obligingly when Loki hooked a thumb beneath the waistband of her pants. The material slid easily down her legs, though it gathered and stuck on the bandages. Max groaned a little and sat up to get rid of them entirely, but Loki's firm hand on her chest kept her in place. He then stretched the elastic bottoms of the pants so that they moved over her wrapped feet without touching anything, and they soon joined his shirt and her sweater somewhere on the floor.

His lips ghosted along her calves, her knees, her thighs, and Max tugged him back up—or at least tried to—when he nipped at her hipbone.

"Loki…" She licked her lips, begging without saying a word, and he soon settled against her, propping his body up with his arms. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders as she kissed him, lips barely pressed to his, and she let out a moan when he eased into her. She knew what she wanted—what she needed. She needed him. Her body, on the other hand, wasn't quite as ready as her mind was, and there was more pain than she would have liked.

He seemed to feel the resistance, and Max shut her eyes as he kissed her, her head cradled in both of his large hands. He took his time now, tongue darting in and out of her mouth, and ever so slowly, he continued to thrust into her. He slid down to the hilt when she wrapped her leg around his waist, and there he remained, still and solid, as she tugged him closer.

When he began to move again, the pain was gone. She almost felt stifled, like the togetherness ought to be overwhelming, but she continued to claw at his shoulders and back, keeping him near as he took her. He was gentle and steady at first, rocking their hips and kissing her. For the most part, his eyes remained closed, and when she felt a hand tighten in her hair, she knew his resolve was breaking. She cupped his face and gave him a quick peck.

"I missed you," she whispered again, and his grip continued to tighten, his pace quickening. She said it over and over, clinging to him as his expression deepened, appearing almost pained. Their kisses grew more frantic, more desperate, and Max came without realizing the pleasure was building. She whimpered his name, rolling her hips to ride out the exquisite sensation, and then locked her arms around his neck, hugging him close.

He continued to take her for quite some time afterward, his pace never faltering in speed or strength, and just as Max started to feel pain again, he groaned deeply in her hair. She used to think that his harsh caresses would leave marks, but they seldom did in the past. This time, as he carefully extricated himself from her grasp, she was positive that there would be some bruising tomorrow.

The mattress was somewhat uncomfortable for two people to fit on, especially when one was a god, but neither said a thing about it. Instead, Max stared at the ceiling, her hands shaking.

She had hoped she would feel better, but she didn't. She naively thought that a quick reminder of what they once had would be enough to take the real pain away, but it didn't.

Her lower lip started to tremble, and she rolled onto her side with her hands pressed over her mouth. The bed shifted as Loki mimicked her pose, throwing an arm around her waist, but he retracted it when he undoubtedly realized she was crying.

"It's not you," she whimpered, feeling instantly horrible for breaking down thirty seconds after sex. "I'm sorry, it's just… It's not you that—"

"It will pass, Max." It was the first thing he said to her in some time, and she rolled over slowly, arms tucked to her chest. He ran a hand through her hair, bringing it to rest on her shoulder. "I promise that it will pass."

Her breath stuttered out unevenly, but she managed to nod before curling against him, eyes shut and mind drifting as he pulled the blanket up.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**So! I had thought I would have this done tomorrow, but it's today! How thrilling so everyonnnne! **

**I found this chapter a challenge to write, but I think it's because I had such high expectations for myself. I feel like it's an important development in their current relationship, and I wanted to portray everything just right. I'm not sure if I accomplished it, but I'm happy with the final result. Like I've said in the past, I don't write sex scenes for shits and giggles. Generally, they contribute to the plot or character development, and I'm hoping this chapter contributes to Loki and Max's relationship in a big way. **

**Right now, Loki does feel a little soft to me, but I chalk that up to the overwhelming realization that someone actually missed him as much as Max obviously did. His stubborn self is going to make a comeback in some pretty big ways, so I will accept the feels for the time being. I HAVE SPOKENNN. **

**I need to write the epilogue to my other active Loki story, so that may take up the better portion of next week. Hopefully, if that gets sorted and I have lots of time to work on the next ghostwriting gig I get, I can start the next update sometime toward the end of the week, possibly the weekend. **

**So much LOVE to all my darling readers and lurkers out there! I planned the next six chapters in detail and finalized things in sequels… and I am debating making this series my **_**only**_** fanfiction while I work on original work. So. Just know how much I wuv this story and the characters and YOU. **

**SEE YOU SOON! **


	10. Waking Up to Ash and Dust

There was pain before she opened her eyes.

Just as they were before, Max's dreams were filled with horrifying images of recent events, and when she fought her way back to consciousness, her cheeks were wet and her body felt like it was on fire. At first, she thought she had slept funny, and before opening her eyes, she tried to shift around to find a more comfortable position. Unfortunately, every single twitch was like a punch to the gut, and eventually, Max decided she might as well get up. It would have been easy to stay in bed all day, but the mattress was so hard that it felt like she had been sleeping on a rock for the last few hours—which did nothing for her battered body.

Her eyes were heavy and damp when she finally opened them, and she ran her hands under her lashes to collect any wayward tears. Although it seemed to have stopped raining, the skies weren't any friendlier: thick, dark clouds could be seen through the large windows of Loki's room, and they looked full enough that they might burst open at any moment. It was all a big, grey mess, and the windows were still stained with water droplets, as though the storm had only recently eased off.

She was happy to be inside, waking up in a bed without rats, but she couldn't help but wonder about everyone who wasn't quite as lucky: what about the people in cages in the streets? Did those assholes have the decency to move them inside, or was everyone wracked with pneumonia now after sitting in a thunderstorm for hours on end?

Loki was nowhere to be seen. Wincing, Max propped herself up on her elbows and did a quick sweep of the small room—she was alone. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw there was no one in the bathroom either, and she swallowed down the blow in her ego that came from waking up _alone_ after spending the night with someone.

It wasn't exactly a new phenomenon, their sex life, but she still would have liked to exchange a few words once she woke up—anything, really, to remind her that she wasn't a complete idiot for throwing herself back into bed with him.

Not that she felt like an idiot—it wasn't that simple. A part of her was happy with what transpired in the early hours of the morning: it had all felt very genuine, very real. However, she also knew that something like this can and would undoubtedly complicate an already complicated relationship—so there was that to look forward to. She rolled her eyes, hoping that he hadn't gone off to hide somewhere so that they wouldn't need to talk about things.

She pushed the thin blanket off her, gritting her teeth at the overwhelmingly painful sensation that ran along her body. Every inch of her skin felt tender, and once the blanket was discarded completely, she realized why. Although her trek through the sewers hadn't been great for her body, it seemed that spending a night screwing Loki was even worse: there were dark purple, blue, and brown bruises on her thighs, hips, waist, and—when she shifted—she could also feel them on her back.

Panicking, Max scrambled off the mattress, only to collapse onto the floor when her legs couldn't actually carry her weight right away. Her feet practically screamed bloody murder through their bandages—which probably needed to be changed soon—and Max crumbled down to her knees, holding herself up with her hands, with a cry. _Breathing_ was painful, and it took her a few long minutes to crawl to the end of the bed to find her previously discarded sweatpants and slip them on. From there, she sat on the mattress and simply stared at the bathroom—it seemed so far away. However, even sitting was tough on her bruised skin, and she carefully eased herself to her feet for the second time. With one hand out, ready to catch herself on the bed if she tumbled again, Max inched along the length of the mattress, and then started toward the bathroom.

Even though she remembered the rule about light switches, once Max had the door shut, she flicked on the light and started peeling off her clothes again. She wanted to get a good look in the mirror to assess the overall damage—which looked even worse than she felt. The bruises were immense: it looked like a painting on her torso, with beautiful dark colours that could sit in any museum. She quickly realized, as she fussed over her battered body, that the majority of the bruising had come from Loki—there was no other explanation for it. At the time, she hadn't felt like someone was beating her with a cinderblock, but apparently that was what happened when you had carefree sex with a Norse god.

She wrinkled her nose, her eyes traveling up her body to her face—at least _that_ bruise was looking better. The marks on her back definitely belonged to Loki: they looked like they came from his fingertips.

"Well," she muttered as she gingerly stepped back in to her pants and underwear, "this is officially the worst hickey I've ever had…"

Rolling her eyes, she scuttled over to the toilet to appease her full bladder. When she wiped, however, there was a bright red smear of blood on the white tissue paper. After another fleeting moment of panic, she realized that without taking her birth control every day, her period was bound to start at some point.

Awesome. Fucking phenomenal, really.

Grumbling under her breath, Max wadded up some toilet paper to carry her over until she could ask Sue for a better solution. Washing up was an equally frustrating process—it hurt to stretch _any_ of her limbs—and in the end, Max dabbed under her armpits and splashed some cool water on her face before calling it a day. A shower might be in the cards again, but she almost wanted to wait until she could lift her arms over her head without cringing.

Once she was finished, she seemed to be moving a little better: each step was marginally less excruciating than the last, and she made a note to not only ask for a tampon, but a whole bottle of Advil. Running a hand through her almost too clean hair, Max searched the floor for Loki, but after shuffling along the hallway and poking her head into the other two rooms, she realized she was completely alone. She frowned; it would have been nice if he stuck around until she woke up.

The sitting room was just as basically furnished as the two bedrooms were, with a single couch and an empty bookshelf, but Max wasn't about to complain: a room was a room, and anything was better than a sewer. So, after taking a few moments to mentally prepare herself, she tackled the never-ending stairwell one stair at a time, a hand gripping the metal bannister the entire way down. She couldn't remember exactly which floor she had eaten dinner on the night before, but she knew that if she reached a door that was welded shut, she had gone too far.

Eventually, she pushed her way through onto the floor with the most activity on it—as evidenced by the yellow-tinted lights flickering in the hallway. Sure enough, the scent of food caught her attention, and Max shuffled along down the familiar corridor—lined with tile and sparsely decorated—until she reached the living-kitchen area she had first been taken into by Sue Storm and Reed Richards. This time, there were children present: two kids sat at the kitchen island with an assortment of books in front of them, and Sue puttered around the countertop behind them.

Still no Loki. Her frown threatened to deepen, but she forced it into a smile when Sue turned back and caught her out of the corner of her eye. Max lifted a hand and gave a half-hearted wave.

"Morning."

"Afternoon," the woman corrected her gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible," Max sighed, taking a few steps toward the kitchen area, "but that's to be expected."

Everything in the room appeared much bigger in the daytime, but this was what Max had expected people like Sue Storm and Reed Richards to live in. The furniture was perfectly matched—modern and tasteful—and the kitchen appliances were at least two decades newer than the ones she and Pat had at home. The granite countertops were like nothing she had ever seen before—nor would she ever own for herself—and she swore the barstools around the island glistened.

She lingered on the outskirts of it all, feeling horribly out of place and a little awkward, until Sue beckoned her forward.

"Have a seat," she offered. "We were just making some lunch."

Nodding, Max started toward one of the barstools at the other end of the island, preferring to give the kids a little space. Sue Storm was what she thought a superhero would look like: even in a pair of grey yoga pants and a baggy sweater, she looked flawless. Her dirty blonde hair was swept up in a fashionable ponytail, and her skin looked like it had never faced a blemish—ever. She moved gracefully, gliding around the kitchen and stopping at the stove, which had a boiling pot of macaroni and cheese sitting on one of the spotless burners.

"These are my kids," Sue told her, gesturing over at the duo with a wooden cooking spoon, "Franklin and Valeria."

"Hi," Max said uneasily when two sets of small eyes darted up at her.

From the fleeting moments that she had seen Reed Richards (and from all her experience studying him in glossy gossip magazines), Franklin looked more like his father than his mother. His eyes were light brown, while his hair was dark, and his facial features were similar to Reed's. Valeria, on the other hand, took after her mother: dark blonde hair curtained her face, and her light blue eyes had a startling awareness to them as she stared at Max. When their gaze met, the girl hastily looked away and resumed scribbling something in her notebook.

"Guys, what do we say?"

Both mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a hello to her, and Max tried her best to smile warmly.

"This is…" Sue trailed off, and when Max glanced at her, she saw the woman biting her lower lip, one eye narrowed as she tried to recall who on Earth Max actually was.

"Max," she offered, and the woman nodded.

"Yes, Max, and she is going to be staying with us like Peter is," she continued, "and so is her friend."

"Speaking of my friend," Max interjected quietly. "Have you seen Loki today?"

"No—"

"I thought Max was a boy's name."

"Franklin!"

The little boy, who looked no older than eight or nine, blushed when Max's eyebrows shot up, but to his credit, he didn't hide in his books like his sister.

"It is a boy's name," Max told him, "but sometimes girls can have a boy's name too."

"Oh." He frowned for a moment, perhaps mulling the information over. She looked over at Sue, who seemed somewhat unimpressed with her son.

"It's called a unisex name," Sue told the boy, "and we ask politely about things we don't understand… We don't make sweeping statements without thinking."

"Oh, it's okay." Max could see the boy's shoulders slumping with each word his mom said, and she tried to stop whatever was happening before it went too far. "I get asked about it all the time."

Her reassurances didn't seem to do either of them any good: Sue continued to give Franklin a hard look until he pulled his thin textbook closer to him and started reading again. Feeling somewhat awkward, she shifted her weight on the barstool, trying to ignore the fact that sitting on such a hard surface was making her poor hips and thighs scream.

"Are you hungry?"

Max's stomach gurgled at the thought of food, and she placed a hand on it gently before nodding.

"I could go for something to eat."

"How does a bagel sound?"

The woman opened her ridiculously large fridge—an appliance that probably cost her thousands of dollars—and pulled out a bag of bagels and a carton of cream cheese.

"We're… We need to conserve a lot of the produce and whatnot—"

"Whatever you want to make me is totally fine…" Max brushed off the woman's concern with a smile and a wave. "I'm not a picky eater."

"You can have some of my Kraft Dinner," Franklin offered meekly, which caught Max's attention. His little sister shot him a wide-eyed look, but then resumed her work in silence.

"Thanks, man," she said, her smile growing when she saw the satisfied expression on his face. "That's really nice of you."

"You're welcome."

As she watched Sue make the final preparations for said Kraft Dinner—pouring the noodles into a strainer and grabbing some milk—Max wished she had something to fiddle with. The best thing would have been her phone: she would have given anything to check on Pat and Tiffany and Garret, maybe call her parents to let them know she was okay—maybe tell them that their only son was dead.

However, that was still in her locker, and the horrible battery probably bit the dust a few days ago.

The sound of her bagel flying out of the toaster—which was equally as fancy as the fridge—made her jump. Heart racing and muscles tense, Max searched the room for the noise, feeling the colour drain from her face until she realized what it was. Slightly embarrassed, she eased off the stool with the intentions of helping her courteous hostess, but Sue seemed to handle everything just fine on her own. She scooped two bowls of mac and cheese for the kids, and then set those and a plate with a sliced apple in front of them.

Her bagel came next, and Max opted to lean against the granite counter rather than sit anymore: her feet were officially less sore than her bruised mid-section.

"Something to drink?" Sue asked when she handed the small plate over. Max grinned at the generous helping of cream cheese on each side of the bagel.

"Water is fine."

The first bite reaffirmed that this was exactly what she needed—the next best thing would have been settling down on a cloud of some kind, but obviously that was out of the question. As she swallowed down her warm, crunchy bagel, she realized there was something she needed to address now before the issue became an actual problem for her.

"I just…" She paused as Sue set a tall glass of water down in front of her, and then took a deep breath. "I said some things last night about… what you guys were and weren't doing—"

"It's okay," Sue muttered, touching Max's arm briefly and speaking in hushed tones. "You seemed a little out of it when you got here."

Max licked her lips as she stared at the woman, and then cleared her throat. "No, no, I meant what I said."

Sue frowned.

"I'm sorry that I came across as rude," she clarified. "That's all."

"Oh."

The next bite of bagel felt too big for her mouth, and it seemed to take forever to just chew and swallow it. Sue lingered by her side, her eyebrows knitted, and Max forced the mouthful down.

"It's just… When I was younger, you guys were always in the news," she told the woman. "You were fighting crime in the Big Apple and sending bad guys home in body bags."

Sue looked pointedly at her children, and Max lowered her voice a little, cheeks flushing when the woman's hard gaze turned back to her face.

"I didn't know whether you had _powers_ or anything…" She wondered if the woman could really turn invisible whenever she wanted. "But you guys were what I thought were… superheroes. And Peter is that spider guy who fought a lizard, and now there's this alien invasion—"

"No one knows that they're aliens—"

"Loki does," she argued, nodding her head a few times. "Loki does and they are, and they're k-killing people…" The idea made her a little breathless, and she stopped to gulp down some air, the colour draining from her face again. "They're trying to take over the planet and you guys are just… sitting in this tower doing nothing with doors welded shut—"

"I don't want to talk about this," Sue snapped, stepping away from her.

"But… But you guys are the Fantastic Four—"

The woman whirled around, her hands clenched at her side in tight little fists. "And that's supposed to mean something?"

Max's mouth opened and closed a few times, and she heard forks clanking against the bowls at the other end of the table.

"You—"

"Do we somehow owe all these people because we've had our genetic code altered?" She scoffed and rolled her eyes, and Max's cheeks paled more. "Are we somehow responsible for fixing all the wrongs in this city because the newspapers gave us that _name_?"

"I… No," Max sputtered, shaking her head quickly. "No, it's just… There are so many people out there who can't do anything." Her lip trembled. "There are people in cages and hiding in sewers, and they physically can't do a single thing to make it right, but you guys… you guys could."

"There's a new wonder team in town," Sue sneered, "and we've been playing for too long. Let the Avengers deal with it."

"Well, I guess no one's doing anything…" She broke off a piece of her bagel. "Because we're still hiding in here not turning the lights on and off, and they're…"

She trailed off when she saw Sue's gaze fall to the ground, and Max quickly realized she had overstepped some boundaries by a mile. They were legitimate questions that she thought warranted an answer, but maybe this was a conversation for another day—maybe when she knew Sue for more than twenty minutes total.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly, her eyes wandering over to Sue again, who was turned away from her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound… like I was accusing you of anything. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

The kids were quiet as ever as she continued to watch Sue, and the woman marched over to the dishwasher and wrenched it open, unloading the dishes in silence. Licking her lips, Max grabbed her cup and plate and hobbled to one of the couches, thinking that the distance would be good. She plopped down in the spot she had occupied the night before, and as she savoured every bite of the bagel, she wished Loki had been around to back her up. Even if he didn't agree with her completely, it would have been nice to have someone on her side as the voice of reason so she didn't sound like an asshole in front of Sue's kids.

Just as she was finishing up, Sue appeared in front of her with fresh bandages, and Max set the small plate on the couch armrest.

"I'm sorry," Max said again as the woman kneeled in front of her. "I really appreciate that you took us in when you didn't have to… We both do."

"Hey, anything we can do to help," Sue muttered dully. "How do your feet feel?"

"Better," she told her, holding out her foot as Sue started to unwrap one of the bandages. "I don't think the cuts were very deep."

"No, they weren't." The woman tossed the soiled bandages aside. "I was more worried about infection than anything."

Max watched the woman fuss over her foot for a moment, checking it from all sides, and then gritted her teeth when she began to rub some cream on the cuts.

"So, are you a doctor?" She had read about Sue Storm in magazines before, including the rare interview about women in power that Max read as a teenager, but she couldn't remember anyone ever focusing on Sue's actual profession.

"I trained as a genetic engineer," the woman told her, "but I guess I wear a lot of hats these days."

"Well, at least you know what you're doing."

"And you?" She wrapped some thinner bandages around Max's foot, looping the tawny material several times before securing it in place. "What do you do?"

"Museum technician," she replied. "I work at the Civil War Museum."

"Franklin went there with his class once."

"Cute," Max said with a smile, holding up her other foot when Sue switched sides. This was definitely a more pleasant conversation. "Maybe we've already met before then."

"It's possible."

The woman's eyebrows knitted as she studied Max's left foot, and in the end, she needed to get a pair of tweezers to pull out a piece of glass that was still wedged in there. The whole process was painful, and once again, Max wished Loki could have at least been around for moral support.

"We'll change this bandage again tonight," Sue told her once all was set and done. Max nodded, biting her lip to keep it from wobbling, as the woman wrapped her foot in a thicker bandage. "Does anything else need a touch up?"

Her eyes darted up to the bruising on Max's face, to which she shrugged.

"I don't know what you can do for bruising," Max said as she leaned forward to grab her glass. Her shirt lifted in the process, and Sue gasped when she undoubtedly caught sight of the black and blue mess that encompassed her hip and torso.

"What the hell is this?" Sue demanded, lifting Max's shirt without asking. Max cringed away when the fabric brushed over the bruising, and she heard a fork clatter against a bowl from behind her. "You didn't have this last night!"

"I… No, it's nothing—"

"This is serious bruising," Sue snapped, dragging Max to her feet and gently examining her hips. "Did… Did _he_ do this to you?"

It took her a second to realize what she was hinting at, and Max quickly shook her head.

"Loki? No, he… Well, I mean, I guess he…" Her cheeks tinted dully when Sue looked up at her. "He didn't do it on purpose—"

"He's not staying here—"

"No, no, it's not like that," she whispered heatedly, hoping to avoid any unnecessary drama. "No, we used to be… together, and then this morning we… uhm… We were… uhm…" She swallowed thickly—how was she this awkward about sex? "We were… together again."

Sue's eyes narrowed.

"This hasn't ever happened before," Max carried on, her cheeks flushed. "I don't think he even knows that it turned out like this."

"Regardless," Sue started, tugging on the elastic waistband of her pants. "Let me see how bad it is."

Max glanced over her shoulder at the kids, but both seemed pointedly interested in either their food or their workbooks. When she was sure she didn't have an audience, Max hesitantly peeled down her pants just enough to show the extent of it. Sue examined her skin with a clinical eye, and then shook her head.

"You need to get back to bed," she decided, "and we're going to put you on a schedule to ice it. I think Johnny has some muscle creams that will help with the swelling."

"Maybe some painkillers too?" Max suggested. It was getting tiresome to stand for so long—despite the fact that it also hurt to sit.

"Yes, and you need to lie on your side," Sue instructed. "There seems to be less bruising there… Not much less, but a little."

"Okay."

"Here, sit down." Sue gestured toward the couch. "We'll get you set up here."

"Actually," she said, stepping back before the woman could touch her arm, "I don't want to take up space in a communal… space." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "I'm fine with the room you gave me."

Sue shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll meet you up there with some new clothes and meds to help with the pain."

"And…" Max stepped closer again, lowering her voice. "And maybe some tampons?"

The woman's eyebrows shot up as Max's cheeks coloured again—this shouldn't be an embarrassing request, and yet here she was, blushing like she was a preteen.

"Sure, no problem."

"Thanks," she mumbled, turning and shuffling in the direction of the stairwell. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Sue gathering up the empty dishes and pushing Franklin's notebook back toward him. Sighing, she carried on down the tiled corridor until she reached the door to the stairs, and then pushed through gingerly.

The climb was definitely worse going up than it was coming down. Every stair was one step closer to agony, and after four floors, Max forced herself to take a break. Not only was she embarrassingly breathless, but her legs were shaking and her hips were on fire. She almost wanted to go back down to the couch that Sue initially offered, but that would have meant tackling the stairs _again_, and she was over halfway up to her floor.

Cursing, she pushed off the wall and gripped the railing, dragging her body up with a slowness that might just kill her.

Another two floors up, she thought she heard something in the stairwell, and when she leaned over the railing, she spotted a familiar figure hurrying up after her. Loki took the stairs two at a time, only realizing she was there when he was at the first step of the level she was currently on.

"Max," he said, appearing somewhat startled to see her. They stared at one another for a moment, and he quickly darted up the rest of the stairs. "How are you—"

"Where have you been?" she snapped, stepping away from his outstretched hand and folding her arms. He frowned at her.

"I was… I was in the sewage system—"

"_What_?"

"I was simply looking for an escape route should we need to flee this place," he told her, shaking his head. "This building will fall like all the rest—"

"Oh my _god_," Max groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically and attempting to stomp up the stairs away from him. Unfortunately, she didn't quite have the mobility to accomplish that, and the best she could do was an angry hobble. When she turned the corner to take the next set of stairs, she saw him standing where she left him, looking a little stunned. She glared, and then leaned over the railing again.

"Why can't you just stay in one spot?" she snapped. Her frustration seemed to surprise them both, and while she felt like she might have been overreacting, she carried on anyway—he should have been there when she woke up. "Why can't you just accept that someone is actually _helping_ us?"

"I… can," he said slowly, hurrying up the stairs after her. "It never hurts to be prepared for the worst, Max."

"Whatever."

"Are you angry with me?" he demanded, snatching her wrist when she tried to walk away. She wrenched it back, staggering to the side.

"Don't touch me."

He held up his hands and took a step back.

"I'm… I'm confused." He licked his lips and took a let out a deep breath. "Have I done something that has upset you?"

She swallowed thickly and turned to walk away, but then thought better. Instead, she pulled up her sweater and pulled down the waistline of her sweatpants, showing off her collection of ripening bruises.

"Did you… Did you…" She felt tongue-tied as he gawked at the marks, and her stomach clenched inward when he reached for her. "Did you know this was… going to happen?"

He stepped closer and tugged her pants a little lower, forehead creased and mouth set tightly.

"No," he said finally, "but I should have realized when… I should have known."

"Yeah, maybe." She stepped away from him and fixed her clothes, then started up the stairs again.

"Let me help you," Loki offered, coming to her side and ducking down—probably to hoist her up.

"No, I can do it myself!"

He shuffled down two steps as though she had hit him, and Max carried on without an apology. She was sick of feeling helpless around him, like she was too small and weak to survive this. Her injuries from the tunnels were on the mend, and now he had gone and made everything worse—not intentionally, she was aware, but he had done it all the same.

Loki followed her up the remainder stairs, not once offering an arm for her to lean on. He did, however, hold the door open to their floor, and Max shuffled by him thanklessly. When she had the option to shut herself away in the room she originally chose, she decided on the spot that it wouldn't do either of them any good. Instead, she carried on to his room with Loki in tow.

It had started to rain again, though it was nothing compared to the storm earlier that morning. There was a light patter of droplets on the window now, and Max peeled off her sweater and tossed it aside once she was by the bed.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," Loki told her as she crawled onto the mattress. "It wasn't my intention."

"Can you just not go anywhere anymore?" Max tugged the covers back up and glared at him. "Can you just… Can you just stay here with me?"

He cleared his throat, fiddling with the fabric of his black shirt. "Yes, I… I can do that."

"Good."

She let out a huff before settling down on her side, wincing and flinching and squirming until she found a position that didn't make her body ache. With her eyes shut, she eventually felt the end of the mattress dip downward as Loki sat by her feet. She peeked at him and watched as he made himself comfortable. Briefly, he seemed to debate whether he ought to touch her or not: his hand hovered over her leg for a long moment, but then soon found a spot on his lap.

Max sighed and stretched her legs out, stopping when her feet touched him under the blanket. She then tried her hardest to fall asleep, hoping that her body would heal itself in the meantime.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**RIGHTO. Just a quick update on my fanfic writing schedule and my writing one: I've decided to make this story my **_**only**_** active fic with the aim of updating once a week. This month, I've also undertaken a ghostwriting job where I'm writing a romance novel in 30 days like a moron, so my wrists are going to be stretched thin. I want to update weekly. I will try to update weekly. Sometimes it will be a week and a half, but I'm trying my best. **

**Anyway. So, my first thought when I think about apocalypses and being on the run from zombies or aliens or whatever, is that I probably wouldn't have my birth control pills, and two days in I'd get my period, and how much that would **_**suck**_**. Bit of a random concern, considering the likelihood of death, but hey, that's me! I've also always been sort of... concerned about sex with Norse gods. I mean. When I learned what their actual weights were, I cringed at the idea of what someone would look and feel like after being with one who didn't really pay attention to his strength-hence Max's bruising. Loki needs to get his shit together.  
**

**I was happy that a lot of the people who reviewed disagreed with me about my opinion on Loki's "softness" at the moment, and I re-evaluated my thoughts based on that. I suppose he isn't soft—more or less subdued instead. I think there's a lot of old feelings resurfacing the more time he and Max spend together, but then he also wants to just get out of there and, well, get off Earth. **

**Also, people are asking about the Avengers, and you'll learn a little more about them in the next chapter! If you're wondering, they will feature more heavily in the second half of the story. I'm still unsure about how long this will be, but there are several story arcs or plotlines that I want to carry out before we're finished, so just know it's going to be a substantial piece again.**

**Much love to all my darling reviewers! YOU'RE ALL FAAAABULOUS, DEARIES! See you again soon!**


	11. I alone tempt you

"Well," Peter chuckled, tucking his legs under the blanket as Max tugged half to her side of the couch, "this is intimate."

"Shut up."

A clap of thunder rattled the windows, and they both glanced out at the miserable morning—this had to be the wettest May the city had ever seen. Max wondered if it was the Earth fighting back against the infection, and while she would have laughed the theory off in the past, at this point, anything seemed possible.

She had been stuck in the tower for almost a week now, and thus far, none of the superheroes in the vicinity had lifted a finger to help with the alien situation. Max spent a lot of her time catching up sleep and willing her body to heal faster, and it was only today that she saw the last of her darkest bruises change to a light green-brown mixture. She had an excuse to laze around in bed all day—her body needed to recover. The others, however, had no excuse. She watched Sue and Reed do homework with the kids. She and Peter played way too many games of chess while Max bundled up underneath layers of blankets and ice packs. Loki lurked nearby, clearly worried about being chastised again, though she could tell he was getting antsy to do something—anything.

It was a feeling she understood. Sue and her younger brother Johnny usually cooked their meals, and Max ate with the tower's residents every day; the only thing she really sunk her teeth into was her tongue, and that was to keep it from demanding to know why no one had done anything. From various windows around the building, Max had watched legions of New Yorkers marched to different locations. The TV played nothing but alien propaganda: news programs insisted nothing was wrong, that the world bowed down to the new king—no one mentioned that Loki was missing, mind you. There seemed to be a lot of activity in Central Park, but she couldn't get a good view of it from any of the windows. The roof would have been an ideal location for scouting alien activity, but the door was locked with various codes, only known to family members and Ben Grimm.

No word from the Avengers, government agency, or the military. Once, two days ago, a jet whizzed across the Manhattan skyline, but it was shot down by four other planes that she assumed belonged to the enemy. According to Johnny, phone and internet reception was spotty, and only a few days ago did Reed commandeer Peter to try to set up secure lines to avoid digital tracing by outsiders.

Max was frustrated. The tower was immense, and yet she felt claustrophobic. Her injuries were much better—_finally_—and yet she still felt like she couldn't do anything. She couldn't say anything or she'd risk offending the people providing her and Loki with clothing and shelter. She couldn't physically do anything because she wasn't some genetically altered super-human.

Hell, climbing the stairs up to her floor left her so pathetically winded that she generally needed to take two or three breaks along the way.

Loki stopped insisting they find a way to Stark Tower, but she knew there was something going on with him that he wouldn't tell her. There was no way a person could sit in front of a window for the amount of time he did and simply think of nothing. He had been especially careful with her lately, and as the days wore on, she wished he would just touch her again—carefully, but not as though she might break if he looked at her the wrong way. It felt like they were starting all over again, finding their groove in terms of what was and wasn't acceptable.

Unfortunately, they had yet to discuss the incident that caused all her bruising—nothing seemed to have changed there. Despite the fact she slept in his bed every night, neither of them brought up the potential for a relationship, nor did she ask him what sleeping together meant. Although, she would have felt much better if she wasn't so completely in the dark as to how he was feeling about her. It was easy to see that he cared for her, but sometimes he felt so distant, so stern and preoccupied, that Max once again felt like she was burdening him.

She still wondered if he regretted rescuing her in the first place.

"Now, don't try anything funny under the blanket," Peter carried on, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "I'm a taken man."

Max scoffed noisily. "I'll try to contain in my lust."

"Good. I appreciate that."

"It'll be difficult."

"It always is."

She rolled her eyes, which made him laugh, and then sunk further in to the corner of the couch. After enjoying a small, somewhat bland, breakfast with Sue and the kids, Max drifted upstairs in the hopes that she could find something to do that would waste away the hours until lunch. Normally, she'd grab Loki and use him as a source of entertainment—he had a knack for finding dozens of things to talk about that did not involve their sex life.

That morning, however, Loki was requisitioned by Ben—somewhat unwillingly—to fortify the sewer entrance, as they had picked up more security scares than anyone was comfortable with, which meant Max was out a partner in her boredom. So, halfway up the stairs, she stole Peter away under the guise of using him to move the mattress from her bedroom into Loki's room—effectively doubling the sleeping space. When they were finished, they ended up in the sitting room on her floor, musing about the ways they could improve the place.

He was a good kid, despite his random bouts of unnecessary sarcasm. For being the Spiderman, he didn't really do anything out of the ordinary: he liked to make the kids laugh at dinner by stuffing food up his nose when he thought no one was looking, and she was pretty sure she had caught him staring at both her and Sue's boobs on more than one occasion. He also seemed innately intelligent, which made for an easy rapport with Reed.

Meanwhile, Max knew virtually nothing about genetics, engineering, physics, or any medium of science, which made conversations involving said subjects really tedious. It was probably why she had very little to say to Sue and Reed if she wasn't thanking them for their hospitality. Peter, on the other hand, was closer in age, shared a few of her pop culture interests (thank goodness for internet humor), and liked to talk about anything.

His favourite topic the other day was Gwen, his girlfriend of almost three years. As far as he knew, she was in Brooklyn when the aliens struck, and while Max didn't revel in his pain, it was nice to have someone in the tower who wanted to get out, who wanted to know what was happening to loved ones.

Sometimes, she wondered if that made her a horrible person.

"It's really coming down out there, huh?"

Peter turned around completely, sitting up on the armrest of the couch to get a better look at the storm. Suddenly, a bright bolt of lightning flickered across the sky, followed by the most tremendously loud clap of thunder—loud enough to make her jump. Moments later, the lights in the nearby hallway flickered and went out, though they turned back on shortly after.

Max almost shared her insights about Thor—about how he was Loki's brother and could control the weather. However, she suspected it wasn't information Loki wanted circulating the tower, and simply nodded instead.

"I hope nobody's outside in that."

"Oh, I bet they are," he muttered. "I bet the sewers are starting to flood, and people are being forced back to the surface."

She blinked, taking in the idea. "Yeah, I hadn't even thought about that… All this rain…"

"Good thing we got you out of there."

"Yeah…"

She pulled the blanket up a little, tucking her arms beneath the soft fabric, and then leaned her head on the back of the sofa. For a few minutes, they simply watched the storm rage outside—with all the awful wind, she expected to see a house fly across the window pane at any moment.

"Why aren't they doing anything?"

"What?" Peter glanced back at her with raised eyebrows, adjusting his slightly crooked glasses. "Who?"

Max hesitated, wondering if she even ought to broach the subject with him. She had asked Loki if he could imagine why a tower full of superheroes just sat on their asses all day after an invasion, but he couldn't find an answer that satisfied her.

"Sue and Reed and Ben and Johnny," she muttered, fiddling with the blanket's flimsy fuzz. "I mean… Why are they just sitting around? Do they have a plan of some kind to… to fight?"

Peter sighed heavily before sliding back down into the couch corner, knees folded in front of him.

"I don't know."

"But don't they want to—"

"Sue's priorities are her kids," he told her. "Ever since Valeria was born, they only take government issued jobs… Nothing dangerous."

"Okay, I get that, but—"

"I've only known Reed for a year," he carried on, "but he never struck me as a fighter… I know they did their thing back in the day, but they're different now."

"Yeah, so is the world," Max groaned, rolling her eyes and sitting up a little straighter. "There are aliens _living_ inside people, and who the fuck knows where the Avengers or the military are. We have genuine superheroes in this tower… _you_ included, by the way."

She let out a soft puff of air when she saw him deflate a little, and she softened her tone.

"Sorry."

"It's a fair assessment of the situation," he mumbled. He shrugged and shook his head. "Look, I'd… I'd be out there if I could. I mean, I help the police department in my spare time… I fight gun-happy assholes on my Friday nights."

Max grinned a little when he glanced up at her, and in that moment, she saw just how young he really was.

"But I can't just go take care of this by myself." He fidgeted again. "I'd do it, you know? I've been trying to… to think of ways that I could do it, but they're everywhere."

"I know," she said as she tucked her hair behind her ears. "I'm just frustrated to be sitting here, I guess. Not that I can do anything… I had to ask Johnny to open the jam jar at breakfast."

Peter chuckled, a genuine display that traveled all the way up to the thin wrinkles around his eyes.

"They're scared, you know?" He almost whispered it, like saying such a thing was sheer lunacy. Max frowned. "They're scared for their kids, for themselves… I think they're hoping it will just blow over."

"Apathy is a great tactic."

"Sue won't fight because of the kids," Peter reiterated. "She doesn't want to lose them, or them to lose her. Reed won't fight because Sue put her foot down, and Ben usually goes along with whatever Reed decides, even if he doesn't support it."

"And Johnny?"

The youngest Storm sibling was everything the magazines played him up to be: roguish, charming, spirited, and still pretty immature for his age. Max had yet to speak to him alone, as he spent most of his time either with the kids or down in his separate apartment—it was difficult to get a proper read on him surrounded by the rest of the tower's occupants.

"Johnny and I have had this discussion already," Peter told her. He paused, glancing at the door. "He'd do whatever it takes to get rid of these… things."

No one wanted to say "alien"—no one but Max. It seemed Sue and Reed were still hesitant to even believe Loki's stories about the creatures that lived in people's chests, but they seemed to be coming around to it little by little. Max hadn't _seen_ the aliens yet, but she saw no reason for Loki to lie—despite his mythological reputation.

And the previous Big Lie.

"So why don't you guys do something?" Max asked. "I mean, I'm sure I could get Loki to help now that he's at one hundred percent again… and I can… cheer from the sidelines?"

"If it is all Invasion of the Body Snatchers," Peter argued, "how are we supposed to know who is a person and who isn't? How do we fight something like that?"

Max licked her lips. "They bleed black—"

"So we just go around taking blood samples?"

"No—"

"Then what?"

"I don't know," she said, exasperated. "You guys are the clinical geniuses… At least try brainstorming something."

"I'm not going to push my luck," Peter told her. "Sue risks enough doing grocery runs while she's invisible… They don't know enough about the enemy to fight it, and I'm not going to dive in by myself. Give them some time—"

"People are dying."

There was a long pause. "I know."

"Gwen could be—"

"I _know_."

She instantly felt guilty for trying to use his girlfriend as a motivator—as if he needed more of a push to worry about her. Max shuffled across the couch, settling in the middle. If they were friendlier, she might have taken his hand or patted his knee, but for now she kept her hands to herself.

"Sorry, let's just… Let's forget I brought it up."

"Okay."

"I bet she's fine, anyway," she added, but it didn't seem to perk his expression up any. He sucked in his cheeks, silent for a moment, and then nodded.

"She's resourceful," he told her when he finally looked up. "She's smart and strong and a total fighter… I bet she and Aunt May are leading a resistance army somewhere."

Max smiled. "Definitely."

"I wish I'd gone with her…" He sighed. "We were supposed to all be at my aunt's place for dinner, but I had to drop off an assignment that was late."

"Well, I was supposed to be somewhere too," Max said, swallowing down the lump of emotion at the thought. "Things don't always go the way they're supposed to."

"That's an understatement."

She sighed deeply: she wanted to get away from the depressing subject matter, and yet it seemed like she had come full circle. Max shifted so that she faced him, crossing her legs awkwardly beneath the blanket.

"So," she started, nodding at him, "how did you become… a guy who can climb walls and spin a web?"

"It's not… They aren't webs," he told her. "They _look_ like webs because I made them that way."

"Oh."

"A spider bit me," he carried on, filling the silence when she wasn't sure what else to ask. "I was at a lab where they were doing some testing, and I was where I wasn't supposed to be, and a spider bit me, and… here I am."

Max smirked. "A nuclear spider?"

"I don't think that was the technical term for it—"

"I was kidding."

Peter grinned, a ghost of a chuckle slipping through his lips. "Right."

She gestured down to his hands. "So, how to the web things work then? Do you ever feel like Tarzan when you swing?"

"I may have let out a Tarzan cry once or twice," he admitted, his cheeks flushing a dull pink, "but I made sure no one was around."

He then rolled up his sleeves and showed her two metallic devices latched to his slim wrists.

"This is where the biocable comes out …" He pointed his arm away from her and fired a handful of webbing—she wasn't sure what else to call it—at a spot on the wall. "It's taken a lot of practice to get the consistency right."

"How did your brain even come up with the concept?" Max grabbed his arm to get a closer look at the device, marveling at its intricacies. "I mean… You could be loaded if you sold just a portion of your brainpower to someone who wanted it."

"That has always been my goal in life."

"So what else can you do?" she asked excitedly. "Any other neat tricks?"

"They aren't tricks, Max," he told her, a faux-seriousness in his voice. "I am a walking, talking scientific miracle…"

He trailed off as she giggled, and when he said nothing else, she noticed him looking over her shoulder before finding something to fiddle with on the blanket. Frowning, Max looked behind her. There stood Loki in the doorway—looking soaked and irritated. She licked her lips, giving him a once over, and then smiled.

"Hey," she greeted warmly, ignoring the expression on his face. "Peter's showing me all his tricks… Look what he can do with these wrist things!"

She waved for Peter to do the trick again, hoping that Loki would be as impressed as she was. However, she spotted Loki stalk out of the room from the corner of her eye without another word, and her smile quickly disappeared.

"Loki?"

His bedroom door shut noisily in response, and Max settled back against the couch in a huff. Peter cleared his throat.

"Jealous type?"

She looked at him, which managed to make him stop smirking, and then rolled her eyes. "Sometimes."

Not that he had anything to be jealous of—the thought of doing anything remotely romance with Peter made her feel like a cougar. All that aside, he had no _reason_ to be jealous: he hadn't once brought up their time together. He hadn't kissed her or touched her in a way that hinted anything beyond a friendship—and maybe that was too strong a word for their current relationship.

"Whatever," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Show me something else that's cool."

"I'm not here for your entertainment—"

"Come on!"

"No—"

"Dance, monkey, dance," she laughed, poking his leg.

"_Fine_!" He hopped off the couch and beckoned for her to follow. "But you can't tell _anyone_ I showed you this…"

Max licked her lips, intrigued, and followed him out into the hall. After casting a sidelong glance at Loki's shut door, she hurried off after Peter, darting into the stairwell and out of sight.

* * *

Max's jaw dropped as she stared at shelf upon shelf lined with boxes of store-bought macaroni and cheese. Yellow and blue Kraft Dinner logos shone out at her as far as the eye could see, and she quickly opened the rest of the cupboard doors, blown away by what she was seeing.

She knew that, until she had kids of her own, she really wasn't in any position to criticize anyone's parenting skills. However, she had just learned—over lunch—that aside from breakfast foods, Franklin ate nothing but Kraft Dinner for all of his lunches and dinners.

After Peter showed her his secret—the doorway the led to the roof, which Johnny had leaked the access codes to—and they had peered out across the rainy skyline, they drifted down to join the rest of the tower for something to eat. Loki was noticeably absent, and when Max asked Ben if anything had gone wrong in the sewers, the man—creature?—said that Loki was as pleasant as always.

Which didn't exactly help her situation.

Still, she tried to ignore it. She wanted to bond with the rest of the people—she wanted to get on the Fantastic Four's good side. After all, who knows when they might come in handy? But then again, that would actually require them to do something beyond hiding in their building, but that was a moot point at the moment. So, after she and Peter finished the dishes, Max decided to investigate Peter's claim that there was a giant stash of Kraft Dinner boxes in her and Loki's otherwise empty kitchen on the floor below her bedroom while he helped Franklin work through some math homework.

Sure enough, the kitchen was Kraft Dinner Heaven, and Franklin would be its king if he could. The kitchen itself needed some work: the walls still needed to be painted, and some of the tiling around the baseboards was incomplete. However, the outermost wall was just a window, and Max could imagine spending a morning curled up beside it with a coffee when the weather was nice. The appliances were so new and clean, and the cabinets—light brown—matched the flecks of colour in the tile. Naturally, the countertop felt like real granite, and there was a kitchen table with no chairs.

And an entire store of Kraft Dinner.

Her arms fell to her side when she heard something in the doorway, and she met Loki's gaze for a moment before turning her attention back to the cupboards. She could feel him staring at her, loitering in the entryway as if he were a dog who wasn't allowed into the kitchen. It was unsettling, in a way, to be someone's sole focus, and Max let out a weak chuckle, pointing up to the boxes.

"There must be six hundred dollars of Kraft Dinner in here." She shook her head, planting her hands on her hips. "This much crap should not be ingested by one kid…"

She reached up for a box to check the expiry date, wondering when these were even purchased, and she was so wrapped up in her hunt for the grey lettering that she didn't even notice Loki stalking toward her. She did notice, however, when he wrapped a hand around her ponytail and wrenched her head back, pressing his lips firmly to hers as she let out a surprised squeal. Dropping the Kraft Dinner box, Max stumbled back as he tugged her away from the counter and pushed her up against the fridge.

Her breath hitched in her throat as his lips trailed along her jaw, and she fisted a hand in his hair.

"Are you still tender?" he whispered in her ear, curving a hand over her hip. "Here?"

"No," she murmured, abdomen clenching when his fingers danced across her fitted tank top—over her stomach and up her side.

"Here?"

"No."

It was a lie. There was some tenderness, but the bruises were almost healed, and there was an excited prickle of pleasure curling inside her that overpowered any soreness.

He exhaled softly on her neck, her skin littered with goosebumps, and he bit down gently on her shoulder when he slipped a hand under her knee, hoisting her leg up to wrap around his waist.

"Here?" She shut her eyes when he ran his fingers along her thigh.

"No."

"Here?"

Her grip tightened in his hair when he cupped her through her thin trousers, pressing the base of his palm on a spot that made her gasp. She tilted her head back, licking her lips and moaning, as he rubbed her. She then straightened up when his tongue trailed up her neck and to her chin.

"Here?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow at her, and Max shook her head quickly, biting down on her lower lip to keep any embarrassing noises in. "Say it."

"N-No," she breathed, eyes fluttering open. She then pulled him in for another kiss, biting at his lower lip to entice him. There was no hesitation on his end, no resistance to her soundless demands.

She wasn't sure where any of this was coming from. Not only had they not spoken about the last time that they were together, he barely touched her this last week. Hell, she was fairly sure she fell asleep with her head on his lap last night, and he had done nothing but stare out the window in response. Not only did she have no idea what drove him back to her, she hadn't the slightest idea what he was thinking either.

However, when he pulled his hand out from between her thighs and stepped between them instead, there was no denying that he felt the same heat she did, the same need and desire.

She could forget his little temper tantrum from earlier for the time being—maybe she had made too big of a deal out of nothing.

"You don't have to untie those," she told him when she felt him undoing the drawstring on her borrowed yoga pants. "They just slid off."

"Good," he muttered, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband and tugging. Max winced when she felt a twinge of pain from one of the leftover bruises, and then quickly put her hands on his shoulders, pulling back for a breather.

"Okay, so," she started, panting a little. "I want to… uhm… I want to do this with… you."

"I suspected as much," he mused, his forehead pressed to hers. She smiled, cupping his cheek and stroking his cool skin.

"Yeah, yeah, there's that," she rambled as colour rose to her cheeks, "but I don't really want to spend a week in recovery again, you know?"

Max expected him to set her down, to see her hesitance as some sort of rejection. Instead, he grinned and hoisted her up completely, urging her to wrap both legs around him.

"Ah, you see, I've given that some thought," he told her, stepping away from the fridge as she curled her arms around his neck, their lips lingering close to one another. "I have no intention of leaving you marked… in the manner that I did when we were last…"

"Together?" she suggested, arching an eyebrow when she saw him open and close his mouth a few times—as if he was searching for the word. Loki nodded.

"When I leave marks on you," he murmured, his hands slipping under her shirt and running along her waist, her back, and up her sides, "I want them to be there purposefully."

"O-Oh." Her other eyebrow shot up now: she rarely heard him talk when they were together intimately, especially not about what they were doing.

"I've come to the conclusion that it is all about positioning," he told her as his back touched the opposing wall. He then set her legs down, smirking when she leaned in. "Careful positioning and awareness on my part."

"Okay."

He then slid down the wall in front of her, leaving her standing over top of him, and her cheeks flushed when he started to drag her pants down in the process. She helped a little, twisting and shimmying to get the fabric down, and she kicked the material aside once she had it down to one ankle. He now sat at a very opportune place, and Max swallowed thick when she felt his lips on her thigh. They were gentle as he pressed a few kisses here and there, his hands sliding up the backs of her legs.

"Sit," he ordered softly, and Max practically collapsed onto him when he bent her legs. Straddling him, Max ground down against his arousal, her hands resting on his shoulders, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Positioning," she muttered, smiling a little before giving him a quick kiss. "Is that what you think about when you're staring into space?"

"Sometimes…" He carefully removed her hair tie, taking her wrist and sliding the bright elastic band onto it. With her hair loose, she watched him watch her, his hands ruffling the freshly washed locks as they fell around her shoulders.

It seemed like they fell into easy old routines after: teasing, touching, stroking, kissing. His fingers were as talented as ever, and when Max yanked open the zipper on his pants, she glanced at the doorway.

"Should we… shut that?"

"There's no actual door, woman," he grunted, pushing her hands aside and hauling her forward. She licked her lips, bracing herself on his shoulders. Her skin was alit with heady desire, sensitive to the touch, but she still balked at the thought of someone walking in unexpectedly.

"But—"

He thrust up and into her, silencing her as he filled her to the hilt. Her mouth hung open for a moment, eyes drifting shut, and he stilled beneath her like he was waiting for her approval. She clenched around him, her body only somewhat distressed at the rough intrusion, but it wasn't long before she relaxed. Closeness felt like a common theme these last two times, and Max wrapped herself as tightly as she possibly could around his neck, shoulders, waist. His hands wandered through her hair, along her back, over her legs—they were never still for long.

She quickly realized he was absolutely right about positioning. Seated on top of him, Max was able to move at her own pace, raising and lowering her body at whatever speed her desire dictated. Sometimes he bucked his hips against her, but she could tell he was almost consciously gentle about it, gritting his teeth every time. For that, she was grateful.

His kisses were rough, however, and Max pulled back whenever he pushed too hard, her thumb resting on his lips as she ground against him. When she finally felt herself breaking, the almost crippling tension finally startomg to spill over, she rocked her hips against him, her forehead pressed to his, and let out a stifled cry.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked tightly, one hand fisted in her hair. She clenched her eyes shut, riding out the pleasure when it finally burst, and she shook her head.

"N-No," she said heatedly. She then moaned, her legs trembling, and she heard Loki chuckle.

"Ah, I see."

"I feel like you got better at this," she whispered after kissing him, her hands cupping his cheeks. He scoffed.

"Well, I had all that time to practice—"

"Really?"

"_No_," he snapped, rolling his eyes at her and pushing himself up. She squealed, clinging to him as he stood and set her on the edge of the nearby table. Before she could get a retort of any kind in, he was thrusting up against her, his face buried against her neck. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively.

"Gently," she whispered, turning and pressing a kiss to his head. "Fragile human… positioning and… _whatever_."

She gripped his shoulder when he reached between them and stroked her, alternating between pointed thrusts and careful tweaks, and before she knew it, she was coming undone all over again. She swore noisily, clinging to him with a thin sheen of sweat across her skin, and then fell back onto the table, her whole body shaking this time. Loki leaned over, his hands resting on either side of her, and he smirked smugly. Max's eyes narrowed as she stared up at him and then sat up on her elbows. It was then that she noticed that while she had finished twice now, he was still as solid as ever.

She nodded down at him.

"Have you not… you know…" She licked her lips. "Yet?"

He shook his head and then pulled up his pants, buttoning himself in. "No, not yet."

"Did you pop a Viagra before we started?" she demanded, unsure where all his stamina had come from lately. Well, not lately—now and before. He shot her a look over his shoulder as he retrieved her trousers, and Max slid into them as she wiggled off the table.

"No, I haven't taken anything in particular."

"So… How are you still…?"

"There are many differences between humans and myself," he told her, ducking down so that he could hold her gaze. "You've discovered one that's worth paying attention to."

She blushed. "Oh."

"Oh indeed," he muttered, pinching her chin before leaning down and wrapping his arms around her waist. Max shrieked somewhat unattractively when he then lifted her and set her over his shoulder, legs flailing and hands gripping his shirt.

"Perhaps," he continued, "you can think of some ways to help me along."

"I'll try my best," she said, laughing a little when he jostled her.

"You always do."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Like I said before: I'm aiming for weekly updates, and I seem to be on schedule! I got an extension for the ghostwriting job I'm doing, so I'll be able to manage working on both this and that without dying. **

**I'm glad a few of you like the way I'm integrating all these new characters into the story. I want all of them there, but I'm trying to find a way to not make it overwhelming with new info and people and all that good stuff. Hopefully someone will let me know if I'm not succeeding. **

**There were a few common questions in the reviews, so I thought I'd answer them. I gave Peter's estimation of where Gwen is within the chapter, which a few people asked about. People were also curious if Max has told Loki about Nolan—she hasn't. I don't think she wants to open up about the subject yet, and this last week has been more about physical recovery than anything else. I don't think she blames him for Nolan's death (as some people have assumed), but we'll see how it plays out when she finally does tell him. I don't think Loki will be the first person she opens up to about it, however. **

**I do so enjoy writing a jealous Loki. It's such an integral character trait in him, and I think he's trying to find different ways of expressing it with Max so that it won't lead to a fight. **

**Anyway. My wrists are **_**spent**_** from this and everything else. I'm off. BUT. Thank you for your lovely comments and reviews! Welcome new readers—and old—and you can always find status updates on chapters on my tumblr account (usually tagged as "fanfiction updates" or "ghost town")—the link to which is on my profile. **

**LOVE YOU ALL, DEARIES. SEE YOU SOON!**


	12. The Knight

The storm had finally come to an end. Loki watched the last sprinkles of water splatter against the window, as though shaken from someone's umbrella. Night would be upon them soon, and if the heavy, thick clouds were any indication of what was to come, it would be another uneasy slumber for those not fortunate enough to be indoors.

And there were surely thousands of them. He had watched Pagurolid foot soldiers march clusters of humans to and fro, showing just how strong they were—how they could control the realm through brute force alone. Did they know of the humans dwelling within the sewers? Did they sense them scurrying below like the vermin he had seen underfoot?

Loki suspected not. That morning, he had accompanied the stone creature to fortify the entrance at the base of the tower. There were more voices in the tunnels—more tugs at the security line—and Sue demanded that they ensure the door would withhold any attackers. Ben's request, at the time, had come across as forced and disgruntled, and Loki only agreed to it so that he would make Max happy. He knew that she watched him sit in the background and refuse to partake in dinner conversations. He had no desire to make friends here—not when he would be leaving them behind to be devoured.

But Max tried. She put in such an effort with these people, despite her frustration with their inaction, and he suspected she would want the same from him. The work wasn't difficult: he lifted some rubble to barricade the staircase on the other side, and then held some metal in place while Ben's fat, stiff fingers welded it along the door. Apparently, the substance would repel bullets, which the Pagurolids seemed quite fond of these days.

When they had finished with their work—not saying more than five words to one another the entire time—and made their way back up the elevator shaft, Loki desired Max's company. However, he found her shortly after sharing a blanket with that _boy_. There he was, wet and stinking from doing a task he thought would make _her_ happy, and he returns to find her cuddled up to another man. In that moment, he was irate—and laughably jealous. He quickly distanced himself from the couple, locking himself in the shared bathroom to freshen up from his labour.

When he had time to think, he acknowledged that the boy was too young for her, that she was probably being friendly—Max was uncommonly accepting of what she saw in the tower, and perhaps the boy required her support. Still, she was smiling and laughing in ways that Loki seldom saw—and he thought they were reserved for him. After pacing their room dozens of times, going back and forth between hating himself for being jealous of human affairs and being genuinely frustrated that he needed to share her, he came to a conclusion of how to remedy the situation.

He would remind her that she belonged in his bed. They hadn't spoke of it, but Loki assumed they needn't discuss what had transpired between them earlier in the week—had they not returned to their previous relationship? Max let him touch her, kiss her, and her allegiance was first and foremost to Loki, but perhaps she simply needed her memory refreshed—so much had happened in her world, after all.

As he anticipated, she was receptive to his advances, and after the assurance of gentleness, he took her until he was satisfied—and she repeatedly so. In Loki's opinion, the quality of their intimacy had decreased somewhat since he resumed his natural form. He enjoyed her, as he always did, but the sensations were less now than before. Physically, he lacked the satisfaction he experienced as a human, but there was more to intimacy than the physical act itself. Max seemed happier than before, and it gave him a sense of pride knowing it stemmed from his normal self. Still, it was more difficult to fully lose himself when he needed to concentrate on not harming her—he already invested a great deal of energy in lightening himself up to ensure he didn't crush her, and it was a pity that needed to continue in the bedroom.

Perhaps one day, he might find a way for them to be together without his magic and Odin's lingering influence changing him, but until then, he did what he must.

She was curled up on her side, wrapped in blankets and bare beneath them, on the bed that she had so cleverly sought to double in his absence. Her eyes were closed and her breathing even, but he knew she wasn't asleep—she had slept too much this last week to partake in afternoon naps.

Was it the afternoon anymore? He had lost track of time when they were together, and he leaned across her to collect his trousers, which were in a pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. In one pocket sat a wristwatch, one that Reed had offered him after they unplugged the digital clocks. It read that the hour was late, verging on seven in the evening. Dinner tended to be in one hour from now, and he was sure Max would be upset if she missed it. However, she remained still as he moved around, and Loki saw no reason to disturb her.

Once out of the tangle of linens, Loki dressed. The clothing Reed gave him was slightly too short around his wrists and ankles, and his shrunken physical form—starved and weakened from his prison sentence—made the waist fit perfectly. In a few weeks, perhaps less, the clothing would be too small. But by then, he hoped to be gone from this place.

He hovered by the window for a moment, watching the streets below. There was some more activity now: the odd person walking along an empty sidewalk, masked beneath a wide-brimmed umbrella—then a car. He had never seen a Pagurolid invasion in person (he'd only heard the stories), and he wondered what their game was—when did the rest of the world realize that it was rigged, and no one but the Pagurolids would walk away as victors?

His eyes drifted up to the sky, as though he could see through the heavy clouds, and he glared. Why had Heimdall not recalled him to Asgard? Why leave him here to suffer? Loki had endured Odin's punishment—surely he was still a citizen of the city, a prince in the palace.

Perhaps not.

Shaking his head, he strode across the room to the dark bathroom, and then splashed his face down in the sink. He lingered for a moment, hands gripping the edges of the counter, before straightening up and wiping the moisture away with his shirt. He wasn't hungry or tired—restless. He was sick of being in this tower, sick of waiting for them to find him.

He wanted out.

With a heavy sigh, he drifted back into the bedroom. Max had rolled over, facing the edge of the bed now, and her eyes were open, their gaze blank. Frowning, he kneeled in front of her and saw the collection of tears building in the corner of one eye, spilling over the bridge of her nose and falling onto the white bedspread. To her credit, she wasn't trembling or whimpering, nor was her breathing ragged. If she hadn't been leaking, there would be no other outward signs of her state.

"Did I hurt you?" he inquired. She shook her head, blinking slowly, and Loki wiped away the tears that slipped loose in the process.

"Your fingers are cold," she murmured as he smoothed them down her cheeks. He saw her skin prickle under his touch, right down to the curve of her shoulder, and he retracted his hand. Resting it on the blanket instead, he watched her sniffle and stare through him, her mind quite obviously elsewhere.

Loki didn't understand her—and he truly wished to. He couldn't fathom how she had any tears left anymore, how she had them to spare. There was death around her, yes, but he would have never taken Max as someone who took on the pain of others—apparently, the bodies in the subway system affected her more than he anticipated. He wanted to find a way to make her stop, to make her forget, but he could never forgive himself if he used magic to influence her. So, he simply let her cry and hoped she would stop soon.

"I'm going to go see to some dinner," he told her, feeding his fingers through her hair now. "I'll fetch you when it's ready."

"Okay." It was barely a whisper, and he saw the ends of her lips quirk up—a valiant effort to smile. She didn't seem to like it when he was gone for long, and Loki enjoyed the permission to hover, to feel needed.

He shouldn't have kissed her, but he did anyway, pressing his lips over her slightly parted ones. Her response now was feeble, nothing like before despite his efforts, and he only pulled away when he felt her fingers on his chin. She trailed them along his jawline and cupped his face, stroking his skin with her thumb, and then offered another small smile. Then, without another word, she rolled over, dragging the linens up to cover herself. Loki lingered for a moment, watching and waiting, and then rose when she stilled again.

She remained unmoved when he marched to the doorway, and he shut the door softly behind him. The floor was theirs and theirs alone, but it felt prudent that their bedchambers give them both a sense of privacy.

The stairwell was painfully silent, as it always was, and Loki took the stairs two at a time. Each floor he passed was darkened—most of the lights had slowly been turned out, as if the bulbs were dying. He thought the actions were premature, but he had no desire to influence the way these people responded to an invasion. The Spider's floor had a few lights on it, though Loki saw no sign of the imp when he peered through the glass window on the door. There were a number of dark floors after that, until he stumbled upon one that did not usually have a light on—it caught his attention.

The eatery was only three floors down, but something drew him to the window—made him stop. Licking his lips, he squinted as he peered into a well-lit hallway. It looked nothing out of the ordinary in comparison to the rest of the building, but there were no doors on either side of the hall. Instead, it was simply one long corridor with a single door at the end. Curiosity peaked; Loki turned the knob and stepped inside, his frown deepening when he noticed the temperature change. It wasn't uncomfortably different here, but to any of the humans, it would have been remarkably cooler than the stairwell.

No artwork on the walls, no fur on the floor: the hall was bland and sterile, and Loki's borrowed shoes made almost no sound at all as they padded against the tile.

His fingers ghosted along the metal door—the coldest thing in the room. It felt solid, heavy even, and after glancing over his shoulder, he turned the rectangular handle and heaved the beast open. It was unlocked, and practically sprung ajar in his hand.

Before him was a room that looked nothing like anything he had seen in the week that he had been here. It was a circular room that must have encompassed three levels: open in the middle with different floors sectioned by railings trailing up the side. The white lights were practically piercing after spending so long in the dark, and as he stepped forward, he saw more technical equipment here than he had in his entire stay on this realm's surface.

There were walls lined with computers, scanners, trackers, and a plethora of blinking lights—every colour imaginable shone back at him. On this floor, there were massive rectangular cases with hoses connecting them, along with tables shrouded in paperwork and books and glass tubes. In the center, the Spider sat, surrounded by metal tools. He was hunched over, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he appeared to be constructing something.

"Evening, Loki."

He didn't jump, nor did he flinch or gasp. Reed Richards was not human, and it did not surprise Loki that he had the capability of sneaking up on someone like him. However, his voice was a jarring addition to the scenery, and Loki pivoted to face him, his eyebrows up.

"There is more to this tower than I thought," he mused. Reed was dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater, his traditional grey streaks on either side of his head quite prominent beneath the lights. "Have I intruded where I am not welcome?"

"No, not really," Reed insisted, stepping around him and darting down the two steps that took him into the main hall. He gestured out at nothing in particular. "I had to dispense with my live specimens yesterday… The lab is perfectly safe."

At that moment, something sparked noisily from the Spider, and the boy looked up with a sheepish expression when Reed cleared his throat.

"Sorry."

"Live specimens?" Loki repeated, following the man down the stairs and studying the upper levels of the lab—as much as he could see anyway. His eyebrows shot up: it was an impressive space.

"Nothing to worry yourself with," Reed told him, leaning on one of the tables and folding his arms across his chest. "Nothing unethical either."

"Were you attempting to find a solution to Earth's… infestation problem?" Loki had no qualms about asking the question directly. Ever since Max's uncomfortable encounter with Sue, his woman had been so delicate about the way she phrased things—so very diplomatic.

Reed stared at him for a moment, and then let his head fall to his chest.

"I can't do anything if I don't know what I'm fighting," he said finally, straightening up and sighing. "I'd rather not guess at—"

"They are very killable, I can assure you," Loki mused, recalling the way he pummeled a Pagurolid in human skin to a pulp in Masonville. "The creatures inside are clever… They need to be to colonize, but they are not indestructible."

He wandered over to one of the metal casings, peering inside and wondering what might have resided in it. When he looked back at Reed, the man's eyebrows were furrowed deeply.

"What are they?"

No one had wanted to know when Loki first told them of the Pagurolids. No one cared to believe that aliens were back, that they had found a way in. Even with a group of superhumans, it seemed that aliens were too remote a thought. Loki decided it was one of the weaknesses of the human race—to deny until absolute proof was presented.

"Pagurolids, as I said," he reiterated, picking up a wrench and examining it in the light. There were flecks of something on the tool—blood, perhaps? "They are a colonial race that moves from planet to planet. They harvest host bodies, usually those who have some power, and slowly take the planet. In my experience, they use the realm's resources until there are none left."

"And how do they take a host?"

To his credit, the man did not sound frightened at the prospect. Instead, Reed appeared quite collected, and the Spider barely looked up from his work in the background.

"They empty the body cavity and meld their bodies within it," Loki explained, shrugging his shoulders when Reed's eyes narrowed. "I cannot be sure _how_ they do it. Perhaps there is magic, and perhaps not."

"And you said they weren't indestructible?"

"They are only a fraction stronger than the bodies they live inside. I dispensed with one some years ago… It took some precise blows, but the creatures live inside the chest, and they are not large."

"They just live in large things," Reed mused, rubbing his chin and shaking his head. "How do they take over planets then?"

"They populate quickly," Loki guessed, knitting his fingers together behind his back. "I suspect they have a connection to their population outside of the realm… They bring more of their kind in. Humanity is a rich species. There will be many bodies to occupy before they are through."

Reed was silent for a long time after that, giving Loki another opportunity to examine the massive space. The Spider appeared to be building metal devices that he could clamp onto his wrists; he didn't object when Loki picked one up to inspect, but continued prodding at the other. They were small and thin, circular guards that could easily strap onto any limb. He tried not to look too interested, and eventually set the device down without a word.

"So, are you saying these… creatures," Reed started up again when Loki was close enough, "fuse their tissue to ours and become the body's new brain center?"

"I suppose."

Reed nodded a few times, pushing himself off the table and pacing in front of Loki.

"That brings up a lot of interesting issues," he mused, hands on his hips as he marched back and forth. "I mean, what is it about their tissue that merges with ours? Do some people have a genetic code that wouldn't accept alien tissue? Could we… Could we use that to _do_ something about them?"

"I am unsure if it has been tried in the past—"

"Maybe a vaccine," Reed carried on, almost as though he forgot Loki was present. "What if we could save the human tissue by killing the alien tissue?"

He frowned. "The humans are dead."

That seemed to stop Reed's movements, and his arms fell to his sides.

"They are but empty husks," he continued, seeing no need to put the information delicately. "If you wanted to fight back in the manner which you suggested, there is no point to account for human life… It is already spent."

"So…" Reed trailed off, frowning again as he resumed pacing. "We'd just need to find a way to kill them… efficiently. I mean, they still look like people… It will be difficult to get others to kill things that look like their neighbour."

"Yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?"

"They've already done that, actually," he told Loki, pointing toward a very large monitor. "I've been able to get around the blocks they've put on the internet connections, and according to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database—" Loki scoffed noisily at the name. Reed cleared his throat. "According to them, Sri Lanka is completely under the control of one of their agents."

"Oh? And how were they able to manage that?" He was skeptical of such news, unwilling to believe that there wasn't an inch of this planet that the Pagurolids hadn't corrupted.

"Genocide, I guess," Reed muttered, licking his lower lip. "The photos coming out of that place suggest it was a blood bath. They've closed all their borders, apparently. So has Norway and Sweden."

"Where are you—"

"I once had the codes to Fury's databases, and it wasn't difficult to get back inside," Reed insisted. "A friend showed me how once… Their security systems should be upped, but it seems like we aren't the only ones in chaos."

"Norway…" The name felt familiar on his tongue—the old Norse, the worshippers. He immediately thought to Thor, who undoubtedly would have made the land his second home should he be removed from American soil. Had he fought?

"South America is a black hole," Reed continued. "I mean, Brazil, Chile, Peru, and Argentina are just… there's no information going in or out. I don't know what's happening down there. Chicago's the same, and I bet Manhattan is another one."

He shook his head. "The likelihood of that much survival is unrealistic—"

"That's what I thought at first," he said, "but there's footage of fighting. It's not much, but it's something. Maybe… Maybe there…"

Loki waited, watching the wheels in the man's head turn, until finally those wheels stopped altogether—he appeared to shut down.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered. "We're safe here. If other countries can do it, I don't see why Captain America can't—"

"You know why," the Spider said suddenly. "We both saw the broadcast."

Loki's eyebrow shot up. "Saw what?"

"There was a telecast early this morning," Reed told him weakly, "that said for every rescue fighter they catch over New York airspace, they'll kill a handful of people. I don't know if it's a serious threat… I mean, they _need_ the bodies—"

"Not live ones," Loki mused, which silenced the man once more. "They merely need enough time to climb inside before the skin decomposes."

"That's why nobody's going to help us," the Spider lamented, slamming a tool down noisily. Loki watched him glare at nothing. "We're a giant city full of hostages, and that'll keep everyone out until they can get inside us."

"That is only a possibility, not a probability," Reed argued.

"And we're sitting on the inside of everything," the Spider continued, fiddling with his metallic wrist brace. His tone lost its lustre with every word, until he was barely speaking above a whisper. "We're just sitting here while they do it."

"How long have planets survived an attack like this?"

Reed looked to him for a definitive answer, his gaze steady and voice stern.

"I never claimed to be an expert on the Pagurolid race," Loki reasoned, equally firm in his response. "From what I have learned in the past, whispers and nothing more, is that they will stay until they devour the realm. Scouts will be sent out shortly before the end, and they will find a new realm to exploit." Reed seemed unsatisfied with his response, and he quickly added. "How long can this planet endure exploitation to that degree?"

Reed shook his head and turned away. The thought seemed to have taken the wind out of him, and Loki wandered back to the Spider's table, picking up one of the devices once more.

"What are you making?"

The Spider shrugged, resuming his tinkering on the other brace. "They're for Max."

Loki's grip tightened around the metal. "What?"

"I'm making them for her," he reiterated, not looking up. "I'm going to teach her to swing."

Jaw clenched tightly, Loki clamped down on the device—it easily snapped in two. The Spider looked up sharply, and Loki set the broken metal back down on the table.

"It seems they will need more work before you give them to her," he noted. He then turned on his heel and stalked out of the lab, leaving both men in a miserable silence.

* * *

Max couldn't sit by herself anymore. Before Loki left, all she wanted was the solitude, but as soon as that door shut behind him, she regretted his absence. Things had been wonderful with him: the sex was great—light and fun and _good_. Plus, from what she could tell, she wasn't quite as bruised this time around. However, once she had some downtime, she was almost immediately overwhelmed with guilt for feeling so happy. Not only were other people suffering around her, but Nolan was dead. Nolan was gone, and she wasn't mourning him—she didn't even want to talk about it with anyone. Naturally, she felt like she ought to, but she couldn't force the words out; they were strangled in her throat every time.

So, in the silence, it was easy to fall into sadness—and she wanted to be sad. People were sad when loved ones died, and she knew she needed to take more than a week and a half to be a miserable wreck. No one deserved to carry that burden for her. She didn't want to overwhelm Loki with her emotions, nor did she feel like sharing the situation with the rest of the tower. For now, it was easier to keep it inside and cry in places like the shower—or, unfortunately, in bed. To his credit, Loki had done what she assumed he thought was best for her in the moment, and she was happy he hadn't pressed for anything more.

Still, she felt hollow when he left. The bed was too big, the room too quiet. So, after taking a few deep, calming breaths, she ended up throwing some clothes on and hurrying after him. However, when she finally arrived at the main kitchen, slightly winded, she frowned when she realized he wasn't even there. Max seldom ran into people in the stairwell, and it had been empty now—where had he ended up?

She could smell Sue's cooking—pizza from a box—as soon as she wandered onto the floor. The woman was puttering around the kitchen area, seeing to both a salad and a pot of Kraft Dinner.

"Do you need any help?" Max asked as she approached, surveying the scene quickly. All the plates seemed to be set out and ready for whoever planned to eat, and Sue shook her head, offering her a quick smile.

"It'll be another ten minutes and then it's all finished," she insisted, waving her off. "Thanks though."

"No problem."

She had been trying to get back onto Sue's good side ever since she wound up on her aloof side earlier in the week, and nothing she did seemed to work. Max thought she was a fairly likeable person, but Sue seemed to keep her distance—rarely did they even talk to one another in a group setting unless Max was trying to help cook or clean.

So, she drifted toward the seating area, smiling when she spotted Johnny and Franklin engaged in a game of chess. Based on the number of fallen pieces on each side of the board, Franklin was already victorious.

"Hey," she greeted warmly, perking up when the boy grinned at her. "Are you winning?"

"Obviously," he replied, pointing to all the black chess pieces he had conquered. "Uncle Johnny doesn't know how to play chess."

The man shot her a look, which made her laugh, and then moved a pawn. "I'm trying my best, kiddo."

"He really is," Franklin told her as she placed a hand on the back of his chair. "He isn't doing that adult thing where they pretend to be bad to make us feel good… He's really just that terrible."

"Can't say I play much chess in my spare time," Johnny grumbled, leaning back in his chair and smirking up at her. "It wasn't really the cool thing to do when I was a kid."

Max blushed, though she tried to hide it. Johnny Storm was one of America's most eligible bachelors. He was usually on the cover of gossip magazines at least once a month, and she had read dozens of feature articles about him and his various careers—astronaut, fighter pilot, race car driver, model.

And Max, like a lot of the girls she knew growing up, had a teensy crush on bad boy Johnny Storm.

"Maybe you can teach me how to play sometime, Franklin?" she suggested, nudging his shoulder. "Peter didn't really do a good job."

"That's because Peter is terrible too," Franklin said, moving his queen straight across the board. "Check mate."

Johnny watched his nephew knock his king piece over, and then clutched at his heart. "Oh, the horror! Lost again!"

"Ten minutes to dinner, guys," Sue called. "I'm going to get your dad…"

"Tell him he owes me money," Johnny laughed, waggling his fingers at her when she glared over his shoulder.

"Not _our_ dad, obviously."

"Yeah, Uncle Johnny," Franklin jeered. "Not _your_ dad!"

"Oh, silly me…" Johnny sighed dramatically, shooting her a wink as Franklin cleared the board, and she swore her blush worsened. He hadn't ever paid her this much direct attention, and it was a little flustering. She even heard Valeria giggle from her spot on the couch, which made Max jump—she hadn't noticed the little girl lurking, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Let me give you some pointers before dinner," Franklin insisted. "Move, Uncle Johnny."

"Hey, no kicking!"

Max cleared her throat and settled into Johnny's vacated chair, which he held out for her, smiling like an idiot. She tucked her hair behind her ears, shuffling forward when Johnny eased the chair in, and the let out a giddy sigh.

"It's really easy to play chess once you know what you're doing," Franklin told her. She could hear the excitement in his voice: he loved it when someone, anyone, paid extra close attention to him. Max had a few opportunities to interact with the kids over the week, and Franklin tended to talk a lot, while his sister rarely said a word. It was a strange dynamic—neither Nolan nor Max ever shut up when they were little.

"So where are you from, Max?"

Johnny had settled next to Valeria on the couch, his legs splayed open and an arm thrown back behind his head. He still grinned at her, and she hoped that the blush was starting to fade.

"Vermont."

"Anything interesting ever happen up there?"

She shrugged, trying to focus on the way Franklin set up the board. "Not really."

"That's what I thought."

"The pawns are more important than people give them credit for," Franklin told her pointedly, tapping each square that he set a piece down on. "Never underestimate them."

"Okay." Max chuckled—mostly out of discomfort by the way Johnny's eyes lingered on her. "That's good to know."

"Do you know why they call me the Human Torch?"

She arched an eyebrow, slowly turning her gaze back to him. "Because you're… a human torch?"

"I burn hot, baby." He snapped his fingers, igniting the tips of them, and she smiled without meaning to.

"Uncle Johnny, _stop_," Franklin complained. "Chess requires total focus."

"I'm paying attention, Franklin," Max assured him, though her eyes quickly wandered back to Johnny's hands, which had a perfectly round fireball hovering over each palm. He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"No, you're flirting with Uncle Johnny." Franklin sounded unimpressed with the assessment, and Max looked back at him sharply.

"I'm… I'm really not—"

"It's okay if you were," Johnny remarked. He winked again when she shot him a look. "I get it all the time."

"Oh my god," she muttered, covering her cheeks. There was no point in hiding her blush, since both Johnny and Franklin seemed to be acutely aware of it. "I just want to play chess."

"That's what I'm _trying_ to show you," Franklin groaned, tapping the board. "Now, you want your first move to set the tone of your strategy, but not in an obvious way…"

"You got a boyfriend out there looking for you?" Johnny asked, and Max shot him a wide-eyed look. However, before she could respond, she spotted Loki standing in the doorframe behind the couch. She wasn't sure how long he had been there for, but as he stepped into the room, his movements appeared stiff. She tried to offer a warm smile regardless.

"Hey," she greeted, nodding down to the board. "Franklin's teaching me how to play chess so I don't suck at it."

"Ah."

Unimpressed, Max turned her gaze back to the board and saw that Franklin had moved the pawn on the far left of his side forward.

"I went looking for you," she insisted as Loki stalked to her side. "Where'd you go?"

"I found a distraction," he muttered. He then stood behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, which slid up to her neck.

"Max, you don't want to take too long to make your first move."

"I never do," Johnny chuckled, seeming to relish in her discomfort, "if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, thanks," she forced out, keeping a smile plastered on her face. When she felt Loki's grip tighten, she squirmed out of his grasp and glanced up at him over her shoulder. His expression remained stoic, his hand hovering, but before she could shoo him away—possessive loitering still wasn't a trait she appreciated in him—with the intention of dealing with it later, Franklin interjected.

"Do you know how to play chess, Loki?"

The boy sounded less excited and more polite now, but he still stared up at Loki with an expression of giddy anticipation. Loki cleared his throat.

"No, I cannot say I do."

"Pull up a chair," Franklin offered. "I'll teach you both."

"No, no more chess," Sue said noisily. Max spotted her hurrying to the stove as Peter and Reed followed shortly after. "Dinner's ready."

"But we can play _and_ eat," Franklin argued, sliding off his chair and darting around the couch. "Mom!"

"I'm just messing with you," Johnny told her once she was on her feet. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, dragging her away from Loki. "It's nice to have you guys here… Keeps the mood light, you know?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, but she forced a smile again anyway as he stared at her, waiting for a response. "Yeah, definitely."

He gave her a bit of a squeeze, which made her stomach flutter nervously, and then flitted off to grab a plate. When she looked back at Loki, he quickly stepped around her and took a plate for himself—and then refused to meet her gaze for the rest of the meal.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Alrighty! Without outright saying it, I dropped some Avengers hints in there—you can tell who's doing well based on location, I suppose. I wanted to try not to alternate between too many different points of view in this story. I recall that, when I said at the end of TSiF I'd have fewer Avengers POVs, no one seemed to mind the focus on Loki and Max. I really wanted this story to focus on their relationship, even more so than before, which is why I haven't drifted off to other story elements as of yet. Things will pick up in the latter half of the plot, but for now, I wanted the audience to learn things as Max and Loki do. **

**Plus, I don't have the wrist capacity to write 6000+ words a week on top of everything else I'm doing, and that's what I'd need to have with a lot of multiple POVs and various storylines elsewhere. **

**I noticed a lot of people were happy with the jealous traits in Loki, and I think there was a positive side to it in the last chapter, but we can't forget how ugly jealousy can—and will—get. Loki's jealousy in this chapter is both obvious and subtle (to me, anyway), and his reasons vary. **

**Anyway! I'm off to edit a manuscript for a job I picked up… I have about 70,000 words to get through this week (guh). As always, I'm aiming for weekly updates, and my weeks run Sunday to Saturday—therefore, you can expect updates between those days. **

**I LOVE YOU ALLLL! Thanks for your continued support and interest and appreciation in this story and its characters, and I'll see you next week!**


	13. The Kids in Candy Land

"Hey, guys," Max called over her shoulder, squinting down at the procession taking place on the street in front of the building. "I swear… This is the same guy I saw yesterday."

"Max, can you get away from the window?"

She pursed her lips, hating to annoy Sue more than she already did—for reasons both known and unknown to her—but she continued to hover, watching. There, driving by the building, was a convertible. In the convertible sat a man, and if she squinted hard enough, she could see that he was wearing a flashy suit and a pair of stylish aviators. There were four motorcycles surrounding the vehicle with little green flags billowing atop antenna-like poles at the back. A tank lumbered slowly behind the entire thing, bringing up the rear at a good twenty-foot distance.

It had been there yesterday too. It was like a parade when a famous politician or astronaut or actor sat in some open car and waved to their adoring fans. However, there were no barricades on the sidewalk, nor were there hundreds of people lining the street. She had seen handfuls of people walking this way and that ever since Loki brought it to her attention—none of them stopped to look or acknowledge the display in the street. The man in the suit didn't wave, nor did he do anything in particular; he seemed to be watching, and occasionally smiling.

The entire tower had congregated for a group breakfast that morning. Sue needed to use up two loaves of bread before they went stale, and at Johnny's suggestion, they were going to feast on French toast. Franklin was absolutely delighted at the prospect, and once Max and Loki made an appearance almost a half hour earlier, the boy took her aside and asked her to help him wash the fruits they were going to decorate the toast with.

It was the only food aside from Kraft Dinner that she had _ever_ seen Franklin gush over, and his parents seemed to be taking the opportunity to pump him full of every kind of vitamin they could before he went back to his usual meal. Kraft Dinner was not a healthy option—Max wasn't sure why Sue and Reed didn't force the kid to eat better, but it wasn't her business to say anything.

Loki had already heard an earful about it, but he wasn't exactly the best to rant to on subjects he didn't care about.

Speaking of Loki—he had ignored her for an entire evening, during which Johnny took any and every opportunity to make her blush. He seemed to get a real kick out of making her go red, and she was fairly sure he didn't realize how much it bothered Loki. Still, she was more annoyed with Loki than Johnny: he was being childish about something that was all in good fun. It reminded her of how he was whenever she and Ben acted too chummy in his presence, and that wasn't a period from their history that she was interested in reliving.

After watching a Disney classic with Peter, Johnny, Reed and the kids, Max had drifted up to their floor that night with the intention of straightening things out with Loki. However, when she found him brooding in front of their window, she couldn't bring herself to pick a fight. She didn't have the energy to justify her feelings, and instead, she tried to playfully break the tension through other means. First, she had hugged him from behind. When she received no response, Max had tried to tug him toward the bed, but it was like tugging on a stone statue. In the end, she had placed her hands on his shoulders and hopped up, locking her legs around him and clinging to him—kissing him. That managed to make him smile, chuckle even, and they had ended up falling asleep together in a temporary truce.

That was two days ago. The truce seemed to be holding up just fine, and every time she saw Johnny, she worked on steeling herself against his flirtations.

It was just so _difficult_. He was a sex symbol—someone she had only ever seen through a screen or on a page. It was hard to treat him as a real person, let alone a real person who liked to see how far he could go with her. Sue seemed less than impressed with her brother's antics, and he finally simmered down after she delivered a pointed kick under the table that everyone else pretended to ignore.

Loki offered to wash all the dishes for her after that.

But all those things were trivial compared to what was happening out there. This guy—this asshole riding around in a fancy car wearing an expensive suit—was someone they ought to pay attention to. French toast could wait.

"Max."

Sue's voice left little room for argument, and as she slid off the chair that was positioned next to said giant window—_why_ put it there if no one could sit in it?—Max continued to watch the car roll by.

"I swear… it's the same guy as yesterday." She said it more to herself than to anyone who was listening. Dishes clanked together behind her, cutlery deposited on the kitchen island, and Franklin was arguing with Ben about the likelihood of one cartoon character winning in a fight against the other.

Suddenly, an arm looped around her midsection, and she squealed as Loki hoisted her up and set her down away from the window.

"Okay," she groaned, poking her tongue out at him and shoving at his chest. "I'm going."

"You left me no choice."

He practically purred the words at her, and she found it difficult to muster up an annoyed expression—not when he looked and sounded so damn charming. He seemed to reserve that side just for her these days, speaking like that when he knew nobody could hear him.

"Whatever," she muttered as she straightened out her shirt. "That doesn't change the fact that some… guy—" She quickly changed her word of choice for the sake of the kids. "—has been driving around today and yesterday like he's practicing for a parade. I swear it's… It seems like the same car too."

Loki's eyebrows flickered up slightly, and he turned back to the window when she searched the rest of the room for some reassurance.

"Wait, is it this guy?"

Sure enough, Peter seemed to be paying attention. He set down the half-empty bottles of syrup he had been carrying and hopped over the couch. Valeria shied out of the way, clutching her colouring book to her chest as he plunked down beside her. When Max approached, she stood up and scuttled away entirely, hiding behind her dad's legs. Max grinned as the man stumbled over her, shooting the little girl a look before softly shooing her away.

Snatching the remote off the coffee table, Peter turned on the television screen and flicked through various channels.

"I keep seeing this one guy everywhere…"

Nothing but pure propaganda made it through their receivers; no matter how many times Johnny attempted to reboot their network. From what Max understood, they mostly used the TV for movies these days.

"Wait, that's him!" Max said hastily, pointing at the screen when a familiar set of sunglasses appeared on a brown-haired man. Slicked back and smooth—that hair was what really got her. She shifted her weight from side to side, watching the commercial with furrowed eyebrows.

The man claimed to be President of the Americas—North, Central, and South—under the Great King Loki. He asked for patience in the transition. He spoke against violence. He called for compliance.

He looked like a douchebag.

"Yeah, this commercial is on a loop on some channels," Peter told her, pointing at the screen with the remote. "I don't know what they thought they'd accomplish by playing it over and over again… People aren't going to watch it."

"You look good on the ol' TV, Loki," Johnny teased, hovering over Max's shoulder as he squinted at the commercial. "Wish you'd smile more. You've got a lovely smile."

The footage of Loki was brief, and it appeared to have been filmed without his knowledge. He was speaking with a short, hunched woman, a metallic spear glistening in his hand under what Max assumed was false lighting. He looked unimpressed with everything—and that was putting it mildly. She grinned.

"The Great King Loki," she said, trying the words out for size. "It's got a nice ring to it."

Loki snatched the remote from Peter and turned the TV off. Johnny groaned dramatically, and Max smirked as she watched him skulk back to breakfast preparations, each movement dramatic to encourage Valeria's soft giggles.

"The man calls himself Carl," Loki informed them stiffly. "He bartered my release from the Chitauri so I might be the puppet king of his new empire."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "So he's a big-shot in all this, huh?"

Loki stared at the man for a moment before letting his gaze drift to Max.

"So it would seem."

She wished he would tell her what happened out there—what had really gone on while he was captured. Even if he didn't think it would do him any good, Max wanted to know so she could try to understand him—to understand this new Loki she shared a bed with.

Licking her lips, she stepped around Peter and reached for the remote.

"Who was the stone-cold fox standing with you?" she asked playfully as Loki held the black rectangle out of reach. "I want to see more of _her_."

"She made me presentable for my subjects," Loki told her, stepping to the side as Max tried to jump up and grab the remote from him. "She's was quite abrupt… Sometimes I wonder if _she_ was the one in charge."

"I want to see her again," she chuckled. "Your height differences deserve another look."

Peter laughed weakly behind her, but based on the look Loki shot his way, Max could only assume she was on her own for this. After a brief episode of embarrassingly pathetic struggling on Max's part, Loki conceded the remote to her—but not in a way that looked like he was just _giving_ it to her, despite the fact that that was how it all played out. Max darted away with a victorious grin, holding the device to her chest before turning the TV back on.

"Oh, look… There you are!" Max teased when she saw a brief image of Loki. He was quickly replaced by this "Carl" person, and she frowned. "Does he look like he plucks his eyebrows?"

"No guy has eyebrows that neat without doing it," Johnny commented from the kitchen. She heard Ben sigh noisily, though she didn't look in his direction—she still found him a little off-putting in person.

Besides, he hadn't said more than ten words directly to Max since she arrived—like Sue, he didn't seem to be her biggest fan.

The commercial's sound suddenly cut out, catching their collective attention, and Max's eyebrows shot up as a pixelated image of Captain America flashed across the screen. The picture came and went, and for five long seconds, it was perfectly clear.

"…situation will be resolved. Stay in your homes until—"

And then he was gone, replaced by a smiling Carl, a miserable Loki, and a hunched woman.

"I'm not the only one who saw that, right?" Peter asked after the commercial played out in its entirety. "He… That was…"

Max nodded when he looked at her, though she couldn't find the words to express what that brief glimmer of hope made her feel. When she turned to Loki, he seemed equally perplexed: eyebrows knitted, mouth turned slightly downward in a small frown. He looked distant, unfocused.

"TV off," Sue ordered, cutting through the stunned silence. "French toast is ready to go."

This time, she listened; pointing the remote at the screen, Max pressed her thumb down on the power button. The picture disappeared in a flash, leaving nothing but a blank image. Loki's gaze lingered there for a moment longer, and only when she touched his hand with hers did he blink. He then leaned down and kissed the side of her head before stepping around her and commenting on the delicious odour of Sue's culinary accomplishments.

* * *

She wasn't sure what had come over her, but when everyone had finished their marathon breakfast, she volunteered to hang out with Franklin and Valeria while Johnny, Sue, and Reed had a little time to themselves. The idea of babysitting seemed mildly off-putting to Loki, and when he made some feeble excuse to do something else—anything else—in the tower, Max shooed him away with a smirk.

It wasn't that difficult. At first, the kids sat at the kitchen island with their homework books under strict instructions from Sue to get through the next chapter. The woman seemed impressed that Max offered to help out whenever they had a question, and she hoped that it would put her in a better light for the Storm matriarch.

Unfortunately, she hadn't accounted for how incredibly boring babysitting kids would be when they were genuinely interested in their homework. Valeria was working on her letters, though when Max took a closer look over her shoulder, she seemed to be writing in immaculate cursive script—a stunning achievement for a kid who couldn't be any older than four or five. Franklin, on the other hand, was crawling through a sea of multiplication tables _without_ a calculator. He'd stop and struggle for a moment, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, and then wade through without asking Max for help.

She felt more useless than she anticipated.

About an hour in to the quiet study session, Reed joined them again. However, after checking on their progress, he drifted into the kitchen area, and when Max asked him what he was up to, he told her he decided to spend the day making chili.

"I like to make it once a year," he told her, "and I seldom find I have the time."

She stared at his back as he moved from cupboard to cupboard, and then sighed. "Yeah, lots of time these days."

Time that could be spent doing something more productive than making chili, but she held her tongue. Fifteen slow minutes ticked by afterward, and Max finally pushed her two-week old magazine away and tapped on the countertop. Franklin looked up curiously.

"I think you guys have earned a break," she told them warmly. Reed glanced over his shoulder, and when she looked to him for approval, he gave a small nod. "Why don't we play something?"

Valeria's little mouth opened, and Max braced herself for the girl's first words spoken directly to her. However, Franklin overpowered her immediately. He shut his math book and pushed it away, practically oozing with excitement.

"I'll set up the chess board!"

Valeria deflated a little, and Max watched her pick up her pencil and resume her writing.

"Well, no, let's save that for later," Max said tactfully. "Let's find something all three of us can play." Franklin frowned, seeming equally put-out by the suggestion. "Chess is more of a two-player game."

"We can play on teams—"

"No, let's play another game," she said, sliding off the high wooden chair and gesturing toward the hall. "I saw some board games in the closet…"

"But those don't take any _skill_," Franklin complained. Max ignored his protests: not only did she not want to play chess, but she did genuinely want to involve Valeria in something. So, she stopped at a linen closet in the hall just outside of the kitchen and pulled the door open. The old, worn game boxes were stacked neatly on the top shelf, and when she pulled one out, she coughed at the sprinkling of dust that came with it.

Out of all the games there, the one that seemed most appropriate—and that Max once knew how to play inside and out—was _Candy Land_. When she returned with the box, she saw Valeria's smile brighten, but also heard Franklin groan.

"That's a _girl's_ game."

"I don't think the evil Lord Licorice is a _girl's_ character," Max retaliated, gesturing for the two to follow her to the coffee table. "There's a character for everyone here."

"It's less about the characterization of the creatures and more about the luck of the draw," Valeria prattled suddenly. Max almost dropped the box, gawking at the girl as she followed shyly behind her older brother. "It's a game that is fair to all its players, which is why it is ideal for families."

She only noticed her mouth was hanging open after the kids walked past her, and she looked back at Reed—stunned. The man seemed to be watching her, and when their gazes met, he smirked and shrugged, a can of sauce in hand.

The girl had the vocabulary of a teenager—maybe even an adult.

Trying to regain some composure, Max set the box down on the coffee table and kneeled beside it, carefully removing the dusty lid and setting it back on the couch.

"That doesn't mean it's not a girl's game," Franklin muttered. "Look at the cover."

"It's a game for everyone," Max said firmly. "It's a racing game… It's no different than snakes and ladders."

At least, she hoped it wasn't—she hadn't played either in years. However, judging by the flash of confusion on both Franklin and Valeria's faces, she assumed neither of them had played the game at all.

Franklin was appeased when he was given first pick of the coloured pieces—he chose red—as Max set up the board, all the while watching Valeria. The girl only said a few more words here and there, mostly about the pros and cons of choosing a certain colour, and she remained stunned at just how gifted a speaker the little girl was. She _sounded_ like an average girl: her voice was still high—and the louder she spoke, the more nasally it seemed. However, her articulation was beyond that of an ordinary child, and her vocabulary was clearly exceptional.

Max wound up with a blue piece, and after skimming the instructions, she reiterated the rules for them.

"So, each card has a colour," she told them, setting the stack at the side, "and the colour will tell you where you move on the board. The first one to Candy Castle wins."

"What do we win?" Franklin asked as she settled down on the floor, crossing her legs and getting comfortable.

"Um…" She shuffled the cards absently, looking for a distraction. "You win… bragging rights?"

"That's no fun."

"You don't win anything substantial in chess either," Valeria argued as she pushed her piece perfectly in line with the first square of the colourful trail. "It's essentially the same victory."

"The winner can have an extra dessert tonight," she promised, though neither of them seemed too impressed with the idea. She licked her lips, wracking her brain for something else. "I… I'll find something. It'll be a surprise. A good one."

Damn it. She heard Reed chuckling from the kitchen, and she shot him a look over her shoulder.

The game started off well. Once Franklin was in the lead, he seemed to forget that this was a "girl's" game and that there wasn't much of a prize at the end. Valeria was right: the nature of the game meant that everyone was on equal footing. When Max was forced to go back to Gumdrop Mountains when she drew the card, both kids giggled delightedly.

It was nice to see them doing something child-related. So far, she had seen them do homework and watch movies. Max was sure they did other things—she hadn't seen their rooms yet—but it hardly seemed like enough. They couldn't go outside to play, and she was surprised they were so well-behaved when they had so little to keep them entertained.

Franklin groaned noisily when he drew his next card, and then tried to shove it under the deck.

"Redraw—"

"No, let me see," Max said gently, taking the card from him. He drew Peppermint Forest, which meant his piece needed to go back to the start of the trail. "You know what to do."

"But I'm almost at Candy Castle!"

He was the farthest ahead of the three pieces, but that meant little in the grand scheme of things.

"That's the joy of Candy Land," she argued, tapping the bottom corner of the board, "and those are the rules. Back you go."

Valeria giggled, muffling the sound with her tiny hands, and Max couldn't help but grin.

"But that's not fair!"

"What are you talking about?" she chuckled as she set the card in the used pile. "If I picked that card, I'd have to go back to the beginning too."

"So why don't you?"

"Because I didn't choose the card," Max reasoned. She pointed at his piece. "Down to the Peppermint Forest with you."

"I hear the weather is lovely this time of year," Valeria chirped, giggling again. Franklin's cheeks were red.

"It's not _fair_!"

She felt her temper rising too: handling kids throwing tantrums wasn't her speciality. However, taking a deep breath seemed to help, and she tried to work on her reasoning skills.

"But there's a good chance you could draw a card that will get you right back to the top—"

"I don't want to start again!"

"Franklin—"

"No!"

Then, out of nowhere, all of the cards and pieces flew off the board, scattering in every direction. Max's little blue player hit Valeria in the forehead, and the girl let out a startled cry. Something shattered across the room—it sounded like a glass falling from the counter and hitting the floor. In the silence that followed, Max noticed Franklin's eyes were red, and a lone tear rolled down each cheek.

"Franklin Benjamin Richards," Reed snapped, stalking across the room and looming over them. "In your room… _Now_."

"I'm sorry," the boy whimpered, slowly getting to his feet and looking from Max to Valeria. "I just didn't want to—"

"Now, Franklin."

He scuttled away quickly after shooting her one last apologetic look. The boy skirted around his father, and she could hear him make a run for the hall.

Max leaned against the couch, trying to process everything that had just happened. She pressed her lips together and then started to gather up the scattered pieces. It was only when she grabbed a few cards by Valeria that she noticed the girl. With her legs drawn to her knees, the little brilliant thing was trembling, and there was a thin line of blood trickling from the spot where the game piece hit her.

"Oh, Reed…" Max set the cards aside and touched Valeria's thin arm, but she flinched away—she started to cry. Reed bent down and hoisted the girl up, setting her on his hip and scrutinizing the wound.

"It's not that bad," he told her softly. "You can pick whatever Band-Aid you want, okay?"

"Okay." She sniffled loudly, wrapping her arms around Reed's neck. Max pushed herself to her feet, taking in the messy state of the room.

"What just happened?"

"It's nothing to worry about—"

"Did Franklin do that?"

Reed stared at her for a moment, his thin lips pressed together firmly, and then cleared his throat.

"No more games for today, okay?"

She nodded and waited for something more substantial, but nothing came. Instead, he motioned back the stove and hoisted Valeria up a little higher.

"Can you watch my chili?"

"I…" She shook her head. "Yeah, I guess so—"

"Thanks."

And with that, he turned and marched out of the room. Valeria watched Max over his shoulder—it seemed her tears had stopped.

* * *

The one major issue about having a bathroom on the highest floor of the tower was that the hot water took ages to kick in. For the longest time, Max cowered in the corner of the little cubicle, skin painfully prickled as she waited for a more comfortable temperature. When the heat finally did start up, it went from lukewarm to scalding in a matter of seconds—Max would then be forced the turn the temperature back down to cold and start the whole process again. Sometimes she'd have shampoo in her eye, other times she'd be waiting with the soapy cloth she used, but _every_ time she showered, it was a dance between hot and cold.

After her strange experience with Reed and the kids that afternoon, she wandered the tower to find Loki. When she eventually happened upon him in their private kitchen, sitting in the beautiful window space with a book in his hands, she didn't have the heart to pester him. In the end, she and Peter wound up watching two movies before dinner, and then surfed through the propagandized television channels after they ate with the hopes of catching a glimpse of Captain America again. That turned out to be a fruitless venture; Johnny even hung around for a while, but he left when boredom struck. Max followed shortly after, which meant she left Peter in front of the TV with a remote in his hand and a determined expression on his face.

She tried to shower as infrequently as she could, and always at night. She didn't want to waste any water, nor did she want to cause a spike in the hydro bill, but tonight it was an act of desperation: her hair actually left grease on her hands when she ran her fingers through it. Loki was reading the same book when she arrived, but he had moved to the bedroom now and he seemed to be almost finished it. He even declined her invite to join her in the shower—perhaps because it sounded as half-hearted as it felt.

Shower sex was difficult at the best of times—they didn't need to overcomplicate it by the fact that they had to be extremely selective with their positioning now.

So, after a good ten minutes of doing the shower dance, Max decided that enough was enough. She had been able to get some shampoo through her hair, and that was all that mattered. Turning the nozzle off, she darted out of the cubicle and grabbed the towel off the rack on the back of the door. As she dried herself off, she took a moment to examine all her fading bruises: most of the original marks were gone, but there were some newer, tender ones on her thighs. Even with their selective positioning, it seemed like she and Loki were going to need some practice at getting things right.

Sighing, she wrapped the towel around her, tucking the end of it under her armpit, and then ran her fingers through her hair. After getting rid of some of the tangles, she turned off the light and moved back into the bedroom. Loki was sprawled out on the bed, one knee bent as he held the book at an arm's length above him.

Max cocked her head to the side, watching him for a moment, and then tip-toed to the head of the bed. Then, when he gave no reaction to her looming presence, she snatched the book forcefully out of his hand and hopped onto the bed beside him. He shot her a scowl.

"Pay attention to me," she whined playfully, pushing on his chest with her free hand. He chuckled softly, his expression softening, and then rolled onto his side.

"Have I been ignoring you?"

"Yes." She pouted, which made him roll his eyes. "You've been ignoring me for…" She turned the book over and scanned the title, and then frowned. "_Gray's Anatomy_. Are you serious? A medical textbook?"

"Don't sound so incredulous," Loki told her, taking the book from her and trailing a finger down its spine. "Reed lent it to me… He's had some thoughts about the invasion, and I wished to learn more about human anatomy before I offered my say."

"Oh?" She shuffled down onto her back, and then watched Loki push her wet hair away from him with a bit of a grimace. "What did he have in mind?"

"He mentioned a vaccine," he told her. He then dog-eared a page in the text and tossed it onto the floor. "He seems to think it has potential."

"Yeah, if Sue actually lets him do it," Max muttered, folding her arms across her chest and huffing. "I'm surprised he's got that much at this point."

They were silent for a moment, and Max spent it raging about the inaction of the occupants in this tower. She came back to reality, however, when Loki smoothed his hand along her arm.

"I've been reading about anatomy all day," he murmured, sidling closer and pressing his lips to her temple—then her cheek, her neck, her ear. "Perhaps you could give me a practical demonstration?"

"Wow," she laughed, squirming away and rolling onto her side when his hands started to wander. "That was bad."

"I thought it was aptly suitable for the conversation."

Her eyebrows shot up as he grinned, and Max gave him a quick peck, pulling back before he could catch her.

"I have a question," she said, wrapping both arms around his and holding it to her chest—as though it was a pillow or stuffed toy, cuddling it close. "When did you… You can do magic, right?"

He blinked lazily at her, as if waiting for more, and then nodded. "Yes, I believe that's been established."

"Right, okay, so," she rambled, her cheeks pinking. "When did you know you could do magic?"

"When?"

"Like… at what age?"

He thought for a moment, his gaze seeming unfocused, and then shook his head. "I'm afraid I can no longer remember the exact age."

"Did you just know how to do it?" She wasn't really sure how to phrase questions regarding magic because, up until she learned about who Loki _really_ was, she didn't believe in its existence. It still felt absurd to have a genuine discussion about it.

"No, I needed to be taught to control it, to shape it," he said. His fingers tickled under her chin. "Why do you ask?"

"I think…" Max pursed her lips, searching for the right wording. "I think Franklin can do magic too."

"Oh?"

"He lost his temper when we were playing Candy Land today," she carried on, thinking back to that moment, "and all the cards and pieces went flying everywhere… and I found some broken glass by the counter after."

"The objects moved on their own?"

"That's what it looked like, anyway," she said, nodding, pleased that he hadn't simply laughed at her and shrugged it off. "And Reed punished him for it, and nobody really acknowledged it at dinner, and I just… I don't think they know what they're dealing with."

Loki arched an eyebrow. "That's quite the assumption, Max."

She frowned. "I guess."

"For all you know, it isn't magic at all."

"But Reed just… He didn't react to it like he should have," she argued. "I mean, he sent Franklin to his room for an outburst."

"As is his right as the boy's father—"

"I was thinking," she said forcefully, trying to keep them from getting off-track, "that maybe you could talk to him. Or maybe try to help him, or just show him that you can do… or… something."

"I hardly think it's my place to do that."

"But what would it have been like it no one showed _you_ how to handle your shit?" She exhaled deeply, shaking her head and fiddling with his fingers. "He can do _something_. I don't know if it's magic, but he looked so upset with himself for doing it." She met his gaze. "I think you should help him out a little."

Loki made a sound that was a cross between a groan and a sigh, and then scooped her up and dragged her on top of him.

"Hey, no," she laughed as she tried to fend off his fingers, which were successfully unwrapping her towel. "Focus!"

"I _am_ focused," he hissed, cupping her face and dragging her down for a heated kiss. Her stomach knotted as a twinge of arousal shot through her, and Max was quickly lost for words. They could talk later—the issue wasn't going to go anywhere.

"You c-can't distract me," she protested weakly, grasping his shoulder as he ran his lips down her neck. She squeaked when he nipped at her—hard.

"I beg to differ."

He rolled her onto her back and tossed the towel aside, his lips attacking her sensitive skin.

Two hours later, when he finally finished with her, with fucking and biting and kissing and holding, Max fell asleep at his side, unable to recall what they had even been talking about in the first place.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**I realized today that my weekly updates are sort of like waiting for a weekly TV show to come out. I understand if people want to wait and read a bunch of updates at one time… I tend to do that with my TV shows these days. Anyway. Random thoughts from a tired author. I'm surprised I managed to get this out at all this week… It's been busy, and it will keep being busy. But I'm still on schedule! Woo!**

**I was thrilled that so many people (in the reviews, anyway) gave me the thumbs up for the more focused approach to Max and Loki's relationship. I sometimes feel like I'm starting all over again with these two, because they are different people now than they were two years ago—it's interesting and a fun dynamic, and I'd like to dedicate time to it. And I guess a plot can happen too. **

**I guess. **

**I'm pretty pumped for the next two chapters. Spoilers, for those who like that kind of stuff: there will be alcohol consumption and underage drinking and drama. And. Well, **_**I'm**_** excited. I'll hopefully get started this Friday and have it finished for some time next week. My weekend is kind of full at the moment, so here's to hoping I get some spare time. **

**Thank you all so much for your lovely words of support! I have a few people who have just finished TSiF and are now working their way through this story, and it's awesome and I LOVE YOU ALL! See you next week!**


	14. Bottles up, let's go round two

"Is this an actual drinking game?"

Peter glanced at the Jenga box in Max's hands, and she arched an eyebrow, hopping down the last two steps to the next landing.

"Are you telling me that all the work I did today making this," she shook the box and the pieces rattled, "was for nothing?"

"No, I just..." He shrugged and adjusted his glasses. "I think Johnny wanted to play poker."

"Ugh," she groaned, rolling her eyes. "Poker and drinking is _boring_."

"And you don't know how to play—"

"_And_ I don't know how to play," she agreed with a grin. "This will be more fun, I promise."

"I don't really care, to be honest," he told her as they rounded the corner, tackling the next stairwell in unison. "As long as I'm drinking, I'm happy."

"That's a bad mentality."

"Okay, Mom."

He laughed when she swatted at his arm, and then hurdled over the railing, waiting for her at the bottom of the next staircase. She grinned and hurried to catch up, stumbling a little when she moved too quickly on her socked feet.

It had been two days since she asked Loki to help Franklin with whatever the kid was stuck with, and thus far, he hadn't complied with her request. For the most part, Loki seemed keen on two things: reading Reed's textbooks and having sex with her. She didn't mind the latter—their sex life, now that they were careful about her bruising, had been _fantastic_ these days. However, she still would have liked to see him _do _something, anything, with the other people in the tower. Having a two minute conversation with Reed about medical literature and looking surly at meal-times just didn't cut it in her books anymore.

She wasn't going to pester him about it. He was a big boy—she hated to think about their actual age difference now—and he could decide for himself how social he wanted to be. Still, when Johnny invited Peter and Max to join him for the evening in his suite, an invitation extended in hushed tones as they cleaned up after lunch, she could only assume Loki was left out because he refused to show the rest of the tower that he had a personality.

Still. She wasn't his mother. She wasn't anyone's mother, and she wasn't going to act like one. There was only so much throat clearing and pointed sighing she could do to make her opinion known, and after that, he was on his own.

He barely batted an eye when she spent the afternoon in their living room converting regular Jenga into Drinking Jenga (which merely involved taking a black marker and writing a variety of drinking-related dares on each block), nor did he ask where she was going when she shuffled down the hall toward the door with her box in hand. He was so absorbed in his latest tome from Reed that she hadn't wanted to interrupt him, just as she hadn't earlier in the day, and she assumed he would come to a point—probably when he was finished—that he realized Max was no longer hovering somewhere nearby.

"So, is it just the three of us then?" Max asked when they arrived at the fourth floor. From what she understood, Ben's man-cave could be found two floors down, and he liked to complain about Johnny's incessant racket—and poor music choices.

"I guess," Peter said, shrugging again. "I doubt Ben warranted an invite."

"And I doubt Sue and Reed would _want_ an invite," she added with a chuckle.

Neither mentioned Loki, though Max intended to make a point to Johnny sometime this evening that it would have been nice to at least _ask_ other people. When the man initially dropped the suggestion, she worried that he was asking her and only her. However, Peter approached her soon after and told her that he'd go if she went, and that set her worries to rest.

Johnny's floor was easy to find. As soon as they neared the door, they could hear music humming from the other side, and when Max leaned in to peer through the little window, she could see a strobe light flickering down the hall.

"Oh my god," she muttered, rolling her eyes and laughing. Peter pushed her out of the way gently, and then let out a snort.

"Awesome."

"No wonder Ben seems perpetually annoyed," Max mused. Peter pushed the door open and she filed in after him—it sounded (and felt) like they were stepping into a club. In that moment, she had a sobering thought about Johnny Storm: wasn't he in his late thirties? She never wanted to tell people they were too old for something, but the strobe light seemed to be a little much.

The hallway was short, and the rest of the floor itself would have reminded her of a combination of her and Loki's floor and the main kitchen area if it hadn't been for all the nude portraits everywhere. It seemed that Johnny had taken a sledgehammer and knocked down just about every wall available, save for what she assumed was a bedroom-bathroom combination on the far side of the space. All of the windows were cloaked in heavy fabric—the lighting bill for this floor must have been astronomical.

As Peter jogged over to the small table to help himself to a handful of chips, Max studied the place, her hands planted on her hips. It was definitely a bachelor pad, though she couldn't imagine too many women would be pleased to see the tasteful—and some not-so-tasteful—nude portraits of other women scattered across the walls. Most of them appeared to be black and white photography, and she wondered if Johnny had taken them himself.

Opposite the bedroom door was the kitchen area, though it was so cluttered with dishes (clean and dirty), bags of chips, and a sea of alcoholic beverages that it was immediately apparent why Johnny ate all his meals upstairs. There was no kitchen island here, though there was a round table with some shot glasses and a bowl of chips that Peter hovered over. The tile changed to pristine hardwood, and the rest of the apartment's layout consisted of a couch set facing a giant flat-screen TV, a bar cabinet, and a pin-ball machine. To his credit, there was no dirty laundry anywhere—no socks sticking out of couch cushions—but she hadn't seen his bedroom yet.

A pair of hands clamped down on her shoulders suddenly, and Max let out an embarrassing squeak. She shimmied out of the grasp and whirled around, glaring when she saw Johnny laughing. Once he was finished, he fished a small remote out of his pocket and lowered the music's volume. The TV screen flickered to life for a moment, and she watched the numbers drop, only then realizing where the sound was coming from.

"Welcome, children," he greeted, extending his arms and twirling around her, "to Johnny's play-place."

"There's less nudity than I expected," Peter commented, nodding toward the nearest naked photograph. "_Way_ less, actually."

"Yeah, I figured there'd be a girl dancing in a cage somewhere," Max added, visibly pleased when he turned off the strobe light.

"I gave her the night off." Johnny snatched a deck of cards from the kitchen counter. "I figured we could find a way to drink heavily over a game of poker."

"Actually, Max has been working on something," Peter told him, gesturing back to her. He shoved a few chips into his mouth, and before he could send half-chewed crumbs everywhere, Max spoke up.

"It's Jenga, but with dares," she explained, hurrying forward and setting the box on the table. "I made to today... Sue said the kids never liked the game anyway."

"Yeah," Johnny said as he cracked the box lid off and pulled out a piece, "but she's going to be pissed that you wrote stuff like... _take a shot_ on the pieces."

"She doesn't need to know," she said nervously, snatching the piece out of his hand and setting it on the table. "And... And that's definitely not the worst of them."

"Come on," Johnny groaned. He waved the deck of cards in front of them, as if to entice them. "Poker is a classic—"

"Two votes to one," Max said with a shrug, smirking at him. "It's Jenga."

Peter crunched noisily on chips behind her, and Johnny rolled his eyes.

"_Fine_," he sighed, tossing the deck back somewhere onto a couch. "As long as we can get suitably drunk, I guess I don't care what we play."

"Oh, if we play right, we'll get drunk," Max told him. She patted the top of the box. "If you knock the tower over, you have to finish your whole drink. There's a bunch of blocks that let you give drinks to people, and rules you can make up so that when someone breaks them, they have to drink."

"This feels very college to me—"

"Probably because you're in your sixties," she teased, grabbing a handful of chips and popping them into her mouth one at a time. Johnny's eyes narrowed, but his lips curved upward into a large grin.

"Okay, go pick your poison, children."

She wiggled her eyebrows at him, pleased to have matched wits and won without collapsing in on herself due to her school-girl crush. Peter was at the kitchen counter first, his eyes widening as he surveyed the dozens of different bottles of alcohol. It seemed excessive for one person to have this much booze to themselves, but as Max studied the various labels, she assumed Johnny was the sort of guy who actually enjoyed hosting parties.

"I need to downsize," he told them, appearing at her side suddenly and grabbing a bottle of vodka and Goldschläger—both of which were fairly full. "Pick as many as you want to tide you over."

"Why the sudden need to get blindingly drunk?" Max asked absently. She tucked a bottle of rum under her arm and searched for a second one: this one had maybe three shots left in it. Peter stood to her left, his hands in his pockets and eyebrows furrowed, scrutinizing everything with what she assumed was an untrained eye.

"I think we've all had a tough couple of weeks," Johnny said, his voice quiet. "Nothing helps you forget that like seeing the bottom of a bottle."

She looked at him, and instead of throwing out a flippant or judgemental remark, Max nodded. She could have used a bottle of something the night Nolan died. Hell, she would have happily sat in a drunken bliss for days if it meant she didn't need to think about him—or the way his face looked when they shot it off.

Or the pool of blood, dark on the tile floor of the museum.

Blinking back the emotion those thoughts brought her, Max wiped under her nose and grabbed an unopened bottle of raspberry vodka.

"Will you help me with this?" She turned to see what Peter had in his hands, and her eyebrows shot up when she saw the name: Tequila Bonita.

Max let out a chuckle. "I'll have a shot or two…" She then nudged Johnny and pointed at the bottle in Peter's hands. "Lemon wedges?"

"But of course." He set his drinks on the table and flitted over to the fridge, rustling around for a moment. Max placed a hand on Peter's when he reached for another bottle.

"If you're drinking tequila, that's all you'll need," she insisted. No need for anyone to die from alcohol poisoning. He looked down at the bottle.

"I normally just drink beer."

"Beer is for frat boys and truckers," Johnny insisted. He straightened up and held a plastic ziplock bag full of lemon slices. "Let's get this night rolling, shall we?"

Peter and Max exchanged a look as they followed Johnny back to the table. Once settled, she noticed there were three shot glasses next to the bowl of chips, but nothing else.

"Cups?"

"Drink from the bottle, princess," Johnny snickered, untwisting the cap on his vodka and taking a chug. Her mouth watered at the thought of doing any of these drinks without something to water them down with.

"What are we… animals?" She stood up and sauntered over the fridge. "I need something to mellow these out."

"What is this? Your first time?"

She let out a sarcastic laugh, hearing Peter crunch on some more chips, and then grabbed a few cold cans of cola from the back, behind the moldy cheese and bread. They were playing a dangerous game tonight if Johnny intended to simply sit them down and chug back straight spirits, and it wasn't something Max could do anymore.

She had no idea how Johnny could handle it. Once back at the table, she placed two cans of cola in front of Peter, looking at them pointedly, and then popped the tab on one of hers. In the meantime, Johnny unloaded the Jenga tower, pushing in any loose or out of place pieces with surprising care.

"How do we decide who goes first?" Peter asked as Max uncapped her bottle of rum.

"Ceremonial shots to begin," Johnny insisted, setting a shot glass in front of each of them and grabbing Peter's tequila. "Last one to recover goes first."

Max wrinkled her nose as she watched her shot glass fill to the brim with tequila, and then reached over the tower and dragged the bag of lemons to her. After setting one beside each of their little glasses, she took a deep breath and picked hers up.

"Here's to one day murdering every single alien asshole outside," she toasted, raising her glass with a sigh. Both men agreed, and the trio clinked their glasses together. Max hesitated before tipping the glass back against her lip, and when she did, she choked—not literally, but she held the liquid in her mouth briefly before swallowing it. Naturally, it burned the whole way down, and her face puckered as she stuffed a lemon wedge between her lips. Johnny barely had a reaction, though Peter seemed worse than she did. Unfortunately, Max also inhaled a seed from the lemon, and she ended up coughing and sputtering until it was out of her windpipe.

"Last to recover," Johnny told her, pointing at the tower of little blocks. "Start us off."

"The rules are pretty basic," she told them, searching for the perfect first tile to take. "You have to do whatever is written on the block, and if you knock the tower down, you finish your drink."

Max glanced at Peter's full bottle of tequila, and then licked her lips.

"Unless you're Peter," she said suddenly, feeling the need to protect him. "You're not drinking an entire bottle of tequila in one go."

"Spoilsport—"

"_You_ can pump his stomach then," she said as she shot Johnny a serious look. He rolled his eyes and Peter cleared his throat.

"I know how to pace myself," he assured her, to which she nodded. She poked out a center tile from a row in the middle, and then carefully pulled it out the other side—the tower didn't even wobble. Flipping it over between her fingers, she groaned when she read her chicken-scratch writing on the other side.

"Lose a layer," she grumbled.

"I like this game," she heard Johnny state as she dragged her sweater over her head. She tossed it over to the nearby couch, and then took a small swig of her rum. It was bitter for a moment, and then pleasant as it trailed down her throat. She then placed her tile back on the top of the tower—carefully—and gestured for Peter to take a turn.

"So, why couldn't I tell Loki about tonight?" she asked. She could already feel the alcohol warming her stomach, and she leaned back in the chair to get comfortable. Johnny shrugged. "Why was it a big secret if we were just drinking?"

"Buzzkills really put a dampener on the mood," Johnny told her.

"I get to give three shots," Peter interjected brightly. He set his tile back on top. "Two for Max and one for Johnny."

She shot him a glare as she filled her shot glass with rum, and then forced down two shots followed by several large gulps of cola. Johnny did his without a chaser, and once she had recovered, she pressed on.

"Buzzkill?" she repeated as Johnny scoped the tower for the right tile. "Loki isn't… He's not a buzzkill."

Johnny arched an eyebrow at her as he removed a block. "I'm sorry… Have you ever met the guy?"

She frowned and looked at Peter, who shrugged and shoved his hand into the bowl of chips.

"I have."

"Then you know buzzkill is a fairly accurate assessment," he told her. "Huh. Make a rule… Okay. For every shot someone gives me, Max also has to take two."

"What?!"

"This is a fun game," he said again, placing his tile on the top of the tower. She stared at him for a moment, and then took another swig of her rum, effectively finishing the bottle.

"Loki isn't a buzzkill," she snapped. "I mean… Sometimes he can… It just takes him a while to warm up to people."

"Right."

"He's great, okay?"

"I bet he had more fun blowing up Manhattan than he's ever had here," Johnny stated, and she felt her cheeks flush. "Look, I know you like the guy, but you can't just blindly ignore who he is."

"I'm not," she said stiffly. She then focused her attention on pulling out another center block, and the writing instructed her to swap an item of clothing with someone. Wrinkling her nose, she took another sip of her cola and turned to Peter. "We're swapping shirts."

He stopped chewing and glanced down at her chest, probably without realizing, and then nodded. "Oh, yeah, sure."

To his credit, Johnny didn't leer or ogle when Max tugged her t-shirt off, though she did notice Peter's cheeks tint somewhat beneath his glasses when her bra was exposed. Her shirt—her borrowed shirt—was a little tight on him, which seemed to surprise everyone, and she felt instantly more comfortable in baggy attire than she did tight. Though, if she wanted supreme comfort, she could have swapped with Johnny—Sue would have killed him for stretching out her t-shirt.

"What's the deal with you guys anyway?" Johnny asked, pouring himself another shot and slugging it back. He sucked in his cheeks this time, seeming more affected than he was earlier. "I mean, are you guys like… a thing? How did you get stuck with him?"

"I'm not stuck with him," she mumbled. Clearing her throat, she sat up a little straighter and watched Peter go for another block—the tower wobbled a little. "We… It's a long story."

"Long and complicated?"

"Aren't they always?"

He winked at her when she looked at him, and Peter held up his block questioningly.

"What?"

Max quickly read the tile. "Pick a colour, and whoever is wearing it has to take a shot."

"Grey."

"That isn't a… Whatever."

All three of them were wearing the shade in one way or another, and after this shot of vodka, Max actually started to feel it. Her body felt warm—warm and relaxed—and she was beginning to lose the feeling on the inside of her cheeks. She touched them both tentatively, and then grinned when Johnny made a dramatic pull from one of the side blocks.

As the game wore on, Max wished Loki was sitting across from her. Instead, whenever she looked up and over the increasingly wobbly Jenga tower, the bowl of chips stared back. She should have defended him more. Her drunken mind drifted between the now and her thoughts, and she wondered if she should have left when Johnny made fun of Loki and Peter said nothing to counteract it.

She wasn't having any less fun with Loki absent: she didn't _need_ a man to enjoy herself in the company of others.

For the most part, Max's drunken conscience felt guilty for not including Loki in something that turned out to be a lot of fun. Max and Peter teased Johnny mercilessly as the tower collapsed on his turn, but instead of forcing him to chug down the remainder of one of his bottles, they split the liquid between the three and downed it after clinking their shot glasses together—three times over.

The room beyond the table was starting to spin at that point, and Max stumbled to her feet and wandered toward the fridge. She clamped her hand down on the handle, but it wouldn't open.

"What—"

"Pull the door, you idiot," Johnny snorted, and she whirled back to glare at him, sliding on her socked feet across the tile. He slumped back in his chair, grinning. "Who pushes a fridge?"

"I… You… Fuck off," she slurred, wrenching it open and retrieving his bag of bread. The expiry date was a little blurry when she tried to read the tiny font, but it was clearly after said date—the loaf felt more solid than it should. Still, even in her intoxicated state, she knew she needed something else in her system. Before she returned to the table, she also filled two glasses of water, which sloshed everywhere as she shuffled back.

"Where's mine?"

"You're a t-tank," she giggled, sliding the glass in front of Peter. "Drink up, young one."

"S'fine," Peter mumbled. He seemed to require immense concentration to rebuild the Jenga tower. "M'fine."

She stared, blinking each eye out of sync; he was only on the second tier.

This could take a while.

Johnny stood and, with a bottle in hand, changed the music to something a little less distracting. After taking another small sip of her vodka—which had almost no effect on her tastebuds at this point—and chasing it with cola, Max downed half of her glass of water. Some logical, sober part of her brain insisted she drink it, or her hangover would be brutal in the morning. Johnny's would undoubtedly be the worst, and fucking Peter Parker would probably be up and active as though nothing had happened.

"Come on," she groaned, grabbing three discarded blocks and setting them on the slowly growing tower. "S'not difficult to put… to put blocks on blocks."

"It's a work of art!" Peter snapped, arms flailing dramatically as she continued to stack tiles. "You're ruining it! You're ruining everything!"

"God," she giggled, though it came out as snort rather than the word itself.

Once they had the tower resurrected, Johnny slid back into his chair and they started the game anew, though Max wondered if she'd be able to make it through another round. Shots slid down like water now, and her actual water tasted unpleasant.

Concerning.

Sort of.

They were two rounds into the second game when Peter drew the tile she had been hesitant to make earlier in the day, and she leaned in when he held it out to her.

"Secret secrets," she told him, squinting at the letters—which flickered on the tile. "We all share a s-secret. Never leaves this room."

Max looked between both men, who seemed to be staring sheepishly at their drinks. She then nudged Peter.

"Go!"

There was a drawn-out moment of silence, until he finally cleared his throat and took a swig of his tequila.

"Okay, okay," he stammered, holding up his hands. His eyes appeared impossibly small, and Max held in a giggle. "I… I took credit for my dad's work. His… stuff. His formulas. His work. It got me a job and it g-got me a scholarships."

Johnny's eyebrows shot up when she looked at him, and she whispered. "Secret secrets."

"Someone else go," Peter demanded. He then reached around in the empty bowl of chips for a moment, and upon undoubtedly realizing he had finished everything inside, reached for her loaf of bread and pulled off a chunk.

"I tell people I fucked every single woman in my pictures," Johnny told them, pointing in a circle around his head. "I tell them… I tell them I did, but I didn't. I jus' like photography."

"M'impressed," Max mumbled. Johnny frowned for a moment, and then swiveled back in his chair and pointed to the picture of the woman above the sink. Legs and arms splayed, it was a long photo that showed her luscious curves.

"No, I… I did it with that one," he said, as though it were an afterthought. "But none of the other ones. And no one since last year. I just… I… Don't tell."

"Secret secrets," she reminded him, tapping her nose when he glanced back at her. Peter nudged her arm and gestured for her to speak, and she took a deep breath. There were plenty of silly, meaningless things she could have said.

Instead, she said the one secret she wanted to keep hidden, blurting it out like her life depended on it.

"I watched my brother die," she said, each word distinctly pronounced, etched on her tongue with painful clarity. "They shot him in the face."

Her head was spinning—spinning and swirling and empty.

"Jesus Christ, Max." It was Johnny who spoke up first.

"M'sorry," she said, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it on her mouth. "Am I being buzzkill?"

She thought she'd feel something when she said it—sadness, happiness, relief. But Max felt absolutely nothing in that moment, and she assumed the half-empty bottle of vodka had, in fact, numbed everything.

"Secret secrets," she said again, placing a finger to her lips—and missing by an inch. "Tell no one… I don't want… I…"

She swallowed down whatever words tried to climb up her throat, and then took another drink.

"Max?"

At first, she thought she was imagining Loki's voice. However, when she heard her name again, she spun around in her chair, a grin spreading across her lips. Sure enough, Loki lumbered out of the hallway and into the apartment, a scowl on his face.

"Hi," she trilled, drunkenly waving at him as she jiggled her legs—positively bouncing with excitement, her omission forgotten. "M'game's a success!"

He looked between Johnny and Peter, and when she glanced back at them, she noticed both men were busily fixing themselves more drinks.

"Is this what you've been doing?" he demanded softly, eyebrows furrowing. He then placed a hand on her arm, and he felt cooler than usual. "Come along… It's getting late."

"We're not done," Max protested, shaking her head. She shook it too much—it felt fun to do so—and when she stopped, the room kept going. "The tower'still up."

"How much have you had to drink?"

Max felt his fingers on her cheek before she saw them, and she reeled back, swatting him away.

"I dunno."

"Well, it's more than enough." His grip was now on her arm again. "Come to bed."

"No."

"Max." He started to pull her upward. "Come along to—"

"No!" She clamped her hands down on the seat of her chair and held strong, glaring at him. "No, m'staying here!"

He stepped back with a huff. "Max, enough… Get up and—"

"We're goin' t'keep drinking," she rambled, "because I want to."

"Honestly, Max, you're being childish—"

"You're not my dad!" The words tumbled from her mouth before she could stop them. "You don' tell me what to do and where to be and go and do." She blinked a few times, her eyes staying closed longer than necessary. "You're not my boyfriend either, apparently, so you def-definitely can't tell me what t'do!"

"_Max_!"

"And you don' get t'jus' swoop in here and pick me up either!" Her fingernails dug into the wood of the chair. "You're not some doll!"

His mouth opened and closed several times. "What—"

"_I'm_ not your doll," she clarified, looking both up and down her nose at him. "You can't just… You can play if you want, but I'm gonna stay till we finish."

Satisfied for one reason or another, Max turned in her chair and stared pointedly at the tower. No one said anything in the lull that followed, and she realized she was shaking as she listened to Loki storm off. When the door slammed down the hall, she set her forehead down on the table, sighing noisily. Dizzy.

Sitting up slowly, she noticed the three shot glasses placed in front of her. Peter was chewing on a slice of bread, and Johnny appeared to be mixing his two bottles of alcohol together. Without another thought, she downed all three—and that last thing she remembered of the evening was reaching for a block and putting her hand through the tower, knocking it over and collapsing in on herself in a fit of giggles.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**BLEGH. For those of you that follow my tumblr, you'll understand why my update was so late. My laptop up and died last week, and I had to get my hard-drive replaced, and it was this whole ordeal. I didn't lose any of my work, thankfully, but I lost time working on my writing project in the meantime, and once I got it back, I spent an entire day catching up on my work. **

**And now my wrists are literally oozing in pain. My ghostwriting job is due in two weeks, and a part of me sort of wants to put this on hold until I finish it. I doubt I'll do it… I can't turn off the muse for this story, but I think for my health and sanity, I need to plug away at it slowly. Once this specific job is done, I'm not taking any more writing gigs for the rest of the year—so this baby will be the only writing I'm working on for the rest of 2013! But, for the next two weeks, maaaybe lower your expectations for updates. **

**ANYWAY. I had fun writing a drunk Max again… It's been a while since I've had her totally inebriated. She makes some bad decisions relationship-wise when she drinks, but there you have it. **

**I was having some thinkie thoughts about her, as I do most of the time, and Loki in this story, and I came to the conclusion that Max is a brave person when it comes to the social sphere. She doesn't rely on anyone to go to parties or outings, and if Loki won't go with her somewhere, she shrugs it off and goes alone. Loki, on the other hand, feels like her opposite these days, and I think that's where a lot of their issues are starting to spring up from. **

**Also, drinking Jenga is one of the few drinking games I happily partake in. So. There's a bit of me for you. **

**I have the next seven or eight chapters planned—I've been writing outlines at work on really slow days, which has been fun. **

**Righto, no more wrist capacity to write tonight. I love all my darlings out there! Thank you for reviewing and following and favouriting and adding me on tumblr! YOU'RE THE BESTEST!**


	15. I bare my skin, count my sins

Max felt like she was spinning—spinning in the darkness with a stomach that churned right along with her. Before she opened her eyes, she was aware of two things: that it was early in the morning and that she needed to puke sometime soon. Her eyes opened heavily after taking a few deep breaths, trying to ward off the vomit, and when she rolled over, she realized she wasn't in her usual bed. Instead, she was in a dark room illuminated by a red lava lamp. The sheets and plethora of pillows around her smelled like Johnny's aftershave and deodorant, with a hint of body odour emitted when she shifted, and she sat up in a panic.

And then flopped back down onto the sea of pillows when her head started to spin more violently than before. Closing her eyes, she tried to remind herself that everything was fine—that she would just throw up and it would be sorted. Unfortunately, the fact that she couldn't remember anything beyond Loki's departure was also unsettling, and her chest heaved in a continued panic. Why was she in Johnny's bed?

Licking her lips and swallowing, forcing the saliva down her dry throat, Max sat up a little slower this time, a hand on her forehead, and scoped the room. There was dirty laundry everywhere, and it looked more like a teenage boy's room than a grown man's—complete with a terrarium and everything.

After giving the room a once over, she checked herself. She appeared to still be wearing all her clothing from the night before, including Peter's t-shirt that they swapped early in the game—neither seemed to think to swap back once it was over, apparently. Her hair was out of its ponytail and loose around her shoulders, and her mouth tasted absolutely horrible. Otherwise, she seemed to be in a fairly good condition—ignoring the swirling pit of bile and residual alcohol in her stomach.

Max groaned. Her head was starting to throb, and as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, she touched something warm and fuzzy—like a sweater left over a heater. She then let out a shriek when Johnny emerged from beneath a pile of laundry at her feet. He was shirtless and wearing a motorcycle helmet, but appeared to also be wearing pants as he shuffled out from under the clothing.

"Oh my god," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "_What_ were you doing under there?"

He pushed the visor up and sat back on his elbows. "What? Don't you ever sleep in a pile of clean laundry?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Can't say I have."

"Then you're missing out," he told her. "Besides… My bed was taken."

He gestured up at her, and her cheeks flushed automatically. Clearing her throat, she closed her eyes and took a few more deep breaths, willing the puke to stay where it was for now.

"We… We didn't… You know," she started, trailing off before she could actually ask the question. Johnny stared at her from beneath the thick black covering of the helmet. "We didn't… _You know_—"

"_No_," he groaned, flopping back onto more laundry with his arms splayed. "Don't you remember? Peter and I put you to bed after you started falling over."

"Oh." No, she didn't recall such an event. She checked her knees half-heartedly, assuming she would have some questionable bruises in a few hours. "Good."

"No need to sound so relieved," he muttered, fiddling with the drawstrings on his trackpants. "I've been told I'm a pretty good lay."

She wanted to bury her face in a pillow. Laughing nervously, she tucked her hair behind her ears. "I'm sure you are, but I _have_ my good lay already."

"I figured as much."

Loki. Oh, god. Max rubbed her face vigorously with her hands, elbows resting on her knees, and then let out a lengthy groan. What had she said to him last night? She knew, vaguely, that she had told him off because he was being an insistent ass about something or another, but she couldn't recall her exact wording.

Something about a doll?

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Mouth filling with a fresh influx of saliva, Max quickly realized she couldn't hold it in anymore. She clamped a hand down over her lips and shot off the bed, and Johnny ducked out of the way as she hurdled toward the room that she assumed was the bathroom.

"Aim for the toilet," she heard him call weakly. She fell to her knees, slamming them against the cold tile, and lifted the lid before emptying the entire contents of her stomach into surprisingly clean porcelain bowl. Eyes stinging and nose running, Max was stuck there for what felt like hours—heaving and vomiting and crying through the worst of it.

She was never drinking again—ever. When it felt like the worst of it was over, she fell back and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and wiping her mouth with some toilet paper. Although her stomach felt better, her head continued to spin. Taking some very deliberate breaths, Max used the wall to get back to her feet, and then flushed everything twice. There wasn't anything she could do about the smell, but Johnny did have a can of Febreeze that seemed to do the trick—sort of. She rinsed her mouth out at the sink and gave her face a quick wash, and then staggered out, leaning back against the doorframe.

"Sorry."

"Better in there than in here," Johnny told her. He had migrated from the floor to his bed, and appeared to be nesting now in the sea of pillows. "You can sleep here if you want…"

She shook her head, the headache starting behind her eyes now, and then sighed.

"No, I need something to settle my stomach."

"Nothing heavy." He was mumbling now, and Max watched his eyes drift shut as he hugged a pillow to his chest. She rolled her eyes.

"Thanks," she muttered. "I've never had a hangover before."

"You're lucky then."

Chuckling, she paused briefly to tug his blanket up, covering him to his chin, and then made her way out of his bedroom. The doorway led straight back into the meat of his apartment, and it was an absolute mess. There were Jenga blocks scattered around the kitchen, empty bottles of alcohol everywhere (the smell making her want to puke again), and a picked-over bread loaf on the table. Peter was nowhere to be seen at first, but she soon spotted him flung out on a couch, his eyes closed and a bottle of water sitting by his head.

Smart kid.

Feeding her fingers through her tatty hair, she shuffled in the general direction of the door that led to the stairwell, stopping here and there with a hand on her stomach and the other on her forehead. The light in the stairs, usually dim, felt far too bright that morning, and Max squinted as she started her climb. Halfway up, she regretted her decision to even get out of bed, and she wished she had curled up on one of Johnny's other couches to get a few extra hours of crashing. Apparently, yesterday and today were days of bad choices.

It might have been because she felt like absolute shit, but it seemed to take an extra twenty minutes—at the very least—to get up to the floor where she usually ate her meals. The stairs were excruciatingly tiring to climb that morning, and Max stopped at every landing to both catch her breath and settle her swirling stomach. So far, there was no risk of puking again, but one could never be too careful during the early stages of a hangover.

Sue would probably murder her if she threw up anywhere other than a toilet.

The main floor was quiet as she stumbled through the doorway, though without Johnny's blackout curtains, the glorious spring sun shone through without a hint of mercy. She blinked at it for a moment, glaring across the living room—it was nice to be rid of the rain, but it could have stayed for just one more morning. It wasn't until she let out a groan-sigh combination and spun dramatically toward the kitchen that she noticed Loki. She was surprised to see him up and eating so early—and by himself.

Seated at the table, his long legs hitched up on the wooden bars of the high stool, he seemed quite relaxed. However, when he turned to look at her, giving her a noticeable once over, she saw nothing but an icy aloofness in his eyes. He returned to his cereal without a word, the spoon clanking noisily against the side of the bowl.

She tugged self-consciously at her clothes, knowing that she looked like a total disaster. What was she supposed to say to him? She remembered being rude, but she hadn't the slightest idea what she actually said to him—or what he said to her. The whole incident was a fuzzy blur in her memory, one that was bound to clear up in time, but not when it mattered. Nibbling her lower lip, Max trudged across the space between them. However, instead of sitting on the stool next to him, Max moved to the other side of the counter to stand opposite him.

"Hi."

He looked up at her slowly, elbows resting on the countertop and shoulders hunched up. Chewing, he arched an eyebrow. She knew she needed to apologize, and surely he would realize that she was beyond belligerent and not responsible for whatever immaturity came out of her mouth at the time.

Before she could say anything more, however, Loki spoke up, his spoon still in hand.

"Did you enjoy your night in Johnny's bed?"

Each word was said so deliberately that the sweeping statement stole her breath away, and she gawked at him for a moment—the tips of her fingers were numb.

"What?"

"I'll not repeat myself," he said stiffly, and Max leaned on the counter, heart racing and palms sweating. "I spoke perfectly clear."

"Yeah, I heard what you said," she forced out. This was his moment to clarify. "I just…" However, when he didn't, she cleared her throat and straightened up. "I didn't… You know I'm not that type of woman."

"Well, you fell back into _my_ bed easily enough." He scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing. "You fooled me, which is quite the accomplishment."

Hurt tears stung her eyes, clinging to her lashes as she stared at him. Was this a joke? She couldn't have possibly said anything bad enough for him to be so… cruel.

"How… How can you say that to me?" She stared at him, her eyebrows slowly knitting together, and waited for something—anything—to indicate that this wasn't real. Was she dreaming? Had she passed out in the stairwell?

Loki returned her gaze, unblinking, and took a breath. However, after opening and closing his mouth a few times, he simply said nothing and resumed eating his breakfast.

"Loki—"

"You made it quite apparent," he ground out, glaring up at her from across the countertop, "that this was… You've said enough, Max."

"I was _drunk_," she hissed, throwing her hands up, "and I'm sorry if I said something that hurt your feelings—"

"Was he any good?" The question knocked the wind out of her again. Loki straightened up and set the spoon down next to his bowl. "He strikes me as the type who would be quite enjoyable. I suspect you won't be covered in bruises this time."

Her jaw dropped, and she hastily wiped away two tears that rolled down her cheeks. Sniffling noisily, she shook her head and scoffed.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Excuse me?" His eyes narrowed at her.

"A fucking _idiot_," she repeated, enunciating each word as much as she possibly could. She then reached across the tabletop and snatched his bowl, and for a minute she couldn't decide if she wanted to dump it in his lap or over his head. In the end, she turned away, her hands trembling, and threw it into the sink, bits of soggy cereal and milk sloshing everywhere.

"That's a terrible waste of food," Loki sneered as she stalked out of the kitchen, and she didn't bother to shoot him a look over her shoulder. She made it about two flights up before collapsing in the corner of the stairwell, feeling emotionally and physically drained for the day.

It wasn't even eight yet.

* * *

Loki listened, his eyes closed, for the telltale sign of a door shutting. When he heard it, his cool demeanor dropped, and he rose from the stool and slammed it against the kitchen tabletop. It shattered, naturally, with wood and metal splintering off in his hand, and he stepped away, teeth gritted and hands fisted.

He was angry at her. For these last few days, he had read up on human anatomy as a _courtesy_ to Reed so that he might be knowledgeable enough to assist the man in his pathetic attempt to save the planet. He assumed his insight would be necessary if there was even a fleeting hope of success, and Loki did it because he knew Max would approve of the effort.

And she didn't even care. Instead, she grew listless and selfish for his attentions, as though she had exhausted everything else to appease her boredom. She went down to carouse with other men, to drink and play games, and not once did she stop to bring Loki with her. She chastised him in front of them—she set the line perfectly clear of what they were to be, even in her drunken stupor. Words slurred, eyes unfocused, Max effectively destroyed all motivation he had with a few simple phrases. She feigned ignorance in the light of day, but he knew it—he should have known it all along.

He was angry with himself for falling prey to the whims of a human, even one he cared for as deeply as he did that infuriating woman. He was angry that he still wanted to take her away with him, and he wondered if she would even entertain the idea now. How had she hidden her true feelings so well?

A small, niggling voice at the back of his mind wondered if he was overreacting. After all, she had seemed genuinely distraught at his jeers moments earlier, and he so hated to see her cry.

Shaking his head, he stalked toward the chair by the window and settled in it, careful to keep it away from the prying eyes of outsiders. Was Max the true trickster here? Had he been blind to it all along, or was he simply throwing a fit because she embarrassed him—hurt him? Rubbing his eyes, he sunk down for a sulk, glaring out at the brilliantly sunny day before him.

He sat like that for some time. He listened to the children eat their breakfast, and apologized to their mother for the broken stool—he offered to fix it, but she insisted it wasn't worth the effort. He then vowed to stand for their meals, which she took as payment with a silent nod.

When the children were gone, he listened to Reed and Sue bicker, perhaps forgetting he was even there. She insisted he spend more time with their offspring, and he argued that he was on the verge of something important. She asked if their children were important to him, and then there was no more to the conversation.

Loki listened to Ben partake in his breakfast. The hulking beast sat on the couch when there were no others present, and they exchanged icy glances before Loki returned his gaze out the window. The Spider joined them shortly after, though he avoided Loki's eyes in the window's reflections. Instead, he merely grabbed something from the fridge and ducked out of the room. Perhaps he would visit Max, Loki wondered bitterly. They seemed to have become close, after all.

He listened to the television for some time. Ben managed to flip through the channels with his fat fingers, but he didn't turn back to watch. The sound stopped at the arrival of the tower's last occupant, and Loki watched Johnny drag himself across the room to get a pot of coffee brewing. Ben left shortly after Johnny's first verbal jab, and the room fell to silence. Bubbling water came next, and Loki glared harder at the building across the street.

"Your girl can really handle her drink," Johnny said suddenly, and Loki slowly turned in his chair. The man had his mug in hand, and after taking a quick sip, he grabbed a piece of fruit from the counter and disappeared. The door shut again, this time with less meaning, and Loki slumped down even further, his hand resting on his forehead, his eyes closed.

Time lost its grasp on him after, and he wasn't sure how much of it had passed when he heard the door open again. He sat up, guiltily hoping that Max had resurfaced. However, a much shorter figure strode in—the young boy, Franklin. He had a box in hand, and after casting Loki a hesitant look, he settled at the table that Loki had often seen him play games of chess at with various other members of his family—and Max, on occasion.

Lips pressed together tightly, Loki resumed gazing out the window, preferring to be alone in his sullenness. In the background, he heard Franklin setting pieces up, each one making a little sound once they were in place. And then it was quiet again. The silence dragged on this time, and Loki could feel two little eyes gazing at the back of his head. So, he let out a sigh and eased himself to his feet, turning slowly to look upon the boy. The chair on the other side of the table was pushed out, and Franklin sat there, looking so much like his father, with his hands on his lap and a slightly nervous expression on his face.

Max wanted him to see if the boy had magic. He felt none as he strode across the room, around the couches and coffee table, passed the TV. There was no pulse, no aura of any kind. As he pulled out the chair, taking a seat behind two rows of black playing pieces, Loki scanned the boy's face for signs of _anything_ that would indicate a magical presence. When there was nothing, he settled properly, wondering if Max had simply been seeing things.

"I have never played this game before," Loki admitted. The boy licked his lips. "You'll need to show me."

"It's basically like a war," Franklin started, picking up a piece from the front row.

"And what would you know of war?"

He kept his voice neutral, free of the usual scorn he might have thrown at a grown man in the same situation. The boy looked up at him sharply and Loki saw him gulp.

"Nothing, really."

"Continue," he said, gesturing to the pieces. "Am I to believe the forces of lightness and darkness are in a bitter battle?"

The boy seemed to lift, perhaps pleased that Loki had acquiesced to the game. "Yes."

"And I am darkness?"

"You can be the white guys next time," Franklin told him, waving it off. "It doesn't matter which side you play. There's no good and evil in chess… only strategy."

"No bloodshed either, I assume," Loki mused, picking up a piece with a cross atop it. Franklin grinned and let out a chuckle.

"No, no blood in chess." He paused for a moment, giving Loki a once over. "Mom would be really upset if that happened."

"I suspect she would." Loki held out the piece. "What is this?"

"That's your bishop," the boy said, taking it out of his hand and setting it back in its place. He had to sit at the far edge of his chair to reach across the board completely. "But we'll start with the pawns."

Loki listened astutely as Franklin went into great detail about each piece. He was an articulate boy, much like his parents, and he seemed to have a great love for the game. In a way, Loki was almost touched that he had been invited to play such a precious pastime.

"Why does the queen have more power than the king?" Loki inquired when the boy finally took a breath. He picked up the piece to examine it.

"I dunno," the boy said, lapsing back temporarily into a childishness that always seemed to make Max smile. "Maybe queens are the ones who do all the dirty work. Mom says it's because girls are the brains of the operation, but I don't think that's the case."

"Your mother is a smart woman," Loki told him. "You should heed her."

Franklin's smile faltered a little—perhaps that was not the response he was hoping for. He nodded. "Okay."

"I'll concede the first move to you," Loki offered after a moment, gesturing for him to begin. Franklin squared his shoulders and leaned forward, moving his first pawn across the checkered squares. Loki cocked his head to the side; he hadn't the knowledge of the game yet to make any calculations, but he assumed it was something he could pick up quite easily. However, rather than using his hands to move his first player, he used his mind. The pawn slid gracefully from one tile to another, Loki's hands resting in his lap, and Franklin stiffened.

"What—"

"Max told me about what happened when you last played with her," Loki said gently. "She says you moved things without touching them."

Franklin glanced back at the entryway—they were quite alone.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it," Franklin admitted after a moment's hesitation. He was looking down at his lap, his eyebrows knitted.

"Why?"

"Because my parents don't know what it is," he said quickly, looking up to meet Loki's gaze. He noticed that the boy's eyes were watery at the omission, and he gave him the courtesy of studying the board. "They're worried I'm a mutant."

"What can you do?" He watched Franklin move another pawn into the fighting arena, and Loki responded in kind, moving a piece with his magic.

"Lots of stuff."

"Be specific," he insisted, a sharpness to his tone that no doubt hinted he was not to be played with—that there was no strategy in their conversation. Franklin licked his lips and fidgeted with the collar of his t-shirt.

"Move things." The boy's knight came forth and claimed one of Loki's pawns—the first non-bloodshed of the battle. He set the piece aside, and Loki saw a way to cut down the knight in two turns if it remained there. "One time, I made Valeria see something that wasn't there."

Loki's eyebrows shot up.

"I got into a lot of trouble for that."

He chuckled, willing his knight into the field. How many times had _he_ been chastised for frightening servant girls in his youth with a slight of hand? Frigga was always so disappointed in his abuse of magic, though he would have willingly taken her light scolding again.

"Do your parents nurture your talent?"

Franklin fumbled with his next piece, looking up at Loki with arched brows.

"When you can do things no one else can do," Loki whispered, leaning forward to share the delicious secret, "it is a talent. It is a _gift_ that should be tamed, controlled, and utilized when in need."

"Mom helped me before the aliens came," he admitted with a sheepish shrug, "but she says my… gifts aren't like hers. She doesn't understand them."

"Of course not," Loki said, watching him move his knight again. Foiled. He frowned, and then eased his own knight forward too. "Everyone's talents are different in all respects. I can move things and conjure images, like you, but we will be different too."

"Can you just… Can you just _do_ it?"

"Yes." He watched the boy fret over his next move for the briefest of moments, and then take Loki's knight out of the board for good. In the next move, Loki was able to capture a pawn, but that barely made up for his loss. "When do your talents arise most?"

"When I'm angry."

"Emotions are exceptionally persuasive over magic," Loki told him. He paused, and then changed his wording. "Over talents… Are you always angry, or are there other feelings that will affect them?"

"Usually just angry."

"And how do you feel when the talent happens?"

"It's your turn."

He willed a piece forward, not caring quite so much about the game in that moment.

"Tell me, Franklin."

The boy's cheeks tinted. "Sometimes when I'm really sad… That's when I can change what people see."

"And what do you feel?" he asked again. "Do you feel a pulse or sensation?"

"Sometimes." Franklin leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumped. "Normally I just feel nothing… It's like I'm numb."

"Because you lack control."

"Oh."

They said nothing else about it. Loki played the entire game without touching a single piece, and Franklin beat him by only a few moves, taking his king when he least expected it. When it was finished, Loki remained seated, and the boy seemed quite pleased at the prospect of playing another round.

"Would you like me to teach you about gaining control?" he asked as Franklin set up the small players. True to his word, he set the white army in front of Loki this time, the black before himself. "I can show you how to tame your talent."

"Really?"

"I lack the distractions your parents face," he reasoned. "We can make a lesson out of it."

"Okay!" the boy blurted, practically bouncing in his seat. Loki held up a finger.

"I will not be a teacher who is easily fooled," he told the boy. "I will not be lenient for disobedience and an unwillingness to try."

"I promise to be the best student..."

Why shouldn't he teach him? Max was right about the child: articulate, thoughtful, intelligent. There was something that Loki could see behind his eyes, and while it wasn't magic, that didn't mean he couldn't be taught to control it. Besides, it was good to feel needed once more, to feel appreciated with limited effort.

This time around, Loki was permitted to make the first move. He chose it carefully, willing the first pawn into battle. It as in that moment that he heard something—a door opening. He paid it no mind, preferring to focus on his jittery opponent, and he grinned at Franklin's tactic—he began the same as he did in the last game.

"Max! Look, I taught Loki chess!"

He looked up quickly the moment Franklin said her name. She appeared frozen, standing at the entrance of the kitchen with her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes darted back and forth between them, and when Loki leaned back, Max focused her attention on Franklin.

"That was nice of you," she said finally, grinning at the boy as she approached. "Is he any good?"

"He's better than most beginners," Franklin remarked haughtily. Loki wondered if he would say that about Franklin in the days to come.

Max appeared refreshed when she pulled up a foot stool to sit on next to Franklin. Her eyes were tinged with redness—an indicator of her mood after she left him. Loki felt a guilty pang in his chest, but he did his best to keep his expression schooled. Her hair was wet and her clothes were changed, and as Loki's eyes swept across her shirt, he realized she was wearing a t-shirt that he had slept in a few days earlier.

"Are you winning?" she asked Franklin, who smirked.

"I won last time," he told her. Loki willed a knight into the field, and Franklin's smirk grew. "And I'll probably win this time."

"There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance," Loki mused softly. He settled back in his chair, reclining somewhat against its stiff support. "You'd do well to remember that."

Max looked over at him slowly, though for once, her expression was entirely unreadable to him. Loki met her gaze the best he could, unsure whether he ought to ask for forgiveness or give it. Before he could do anything, she stood up and disappeared back to the kitchen, and he heard her rummaging through the fridge. A few turns later, she returned with a sandwich. She then set the footstool closer to the center of the playing board, settling down atop it with a bite of her lunch.

"How are you feeling?" he asked cautiously as Franklin's bishop took out his castle. She chewed for a moment, her eyes on the board.

"A little better and a little worse."

"That doesn't make sense," Franklin interjected, which seemed to make Max smile sadly.

"No, I guess it doesn't."

Loki turned his attention back to the board, jaw clenched, and then hesitated before moving his other castle. Max's socked foot settled next to his beneath the table, and though she didn't look at him, not even when she spoke in the general conversation of the game, it lingered by his the entire time—which sparked an unspoken conversation neither knew they needed to have.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**HELLO. I SAW THOR 2 TODAY AND THE MUSE WAS SPARKED! I intended to finish this later in the week, but here we are. I'm still keeping this story AU, but the events in Thor 2 maaaay surface a little in the sequel to this story—we'll see! It was great, and obviously you should all see it. **

**Many of you asked in the reviews if Loki heard Max's confession, and based on the fact that he had no mention of it in his sulking phase, I hope that answers the question. I also had a reviewer ask for my tumblr—the link is on my homepage here, but my username there is briefcasefullof-tacos. Come say hello and enjoyyyy the Community reference! **

**So, I got my first enraged review for **_**The Sky is Falling**_** last week! It was anonymous, **_**of course**_**, and it basically raged on about how I wasted the reader's time, and I was one of the reasons they have trust issues (because I said it wouldn't be super cliffhangery and it was), and that they were unimpressed that two weeks of their life went toward meaningless bullshit. **

**So. Here's a general disclosure so I don't waste anyone's time again. This story will also be long. It's character-driven with several plotlines, and I'm not going to apologize for that. If you don't like it, don't read it. You aren't paying for it, so take your sob story somewhere else. Constructive criticism is appreciated—I've been freelance editing recently, and some work has been bad, but it's all about how you phrase things in the critique. Unnecessary complaining about something that I'd never change (plot structure, for one thing) will be scoffed at and ignored. I work so fucking hard on this stuff—more than I should—and I'm genuinely proud of what I've created here. I like working on it. I'm always plotting and planning and writing it. Take your negativity elsewhere if you have nothing useful to add from one writer/reader to another writer/reader. **

**Fuck. It's like people who come up to me at the theatre and want their money back because their movie was terrible, and yet they sat through it regardless. Fuck right off. If I dislike a story so much that I don't want to continue it, I just close my tab and move on. If I feel like a story isn't going anywhere, I check out a bit. I get it. Long stories are commitment. I'm a little more miffed when books I buy are bad, because there goes my money, but free online fanfiction? Nope. Nope, nope, nope. **

**Anyway, I'm rambling waay too much. I enjoyed writing a hypocrite!Loki in this chapter (whining that Max is being selfish for wanting his time when she's bored), as well as teacher!Loki. I'm looking forward to developing all of Loki's budding relationships, particularly in romance department. Max and Loki are a bit of a trainwreck at the moment, unfortunately. **

**Thank you to the darlings that keep reviewing! It means the world to me! **


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